


Indelibly Marked

by Dawnwind



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-28
Updated: 2011-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle is frantic after Bodie disappears on an undercover operation. To discover Bodie's whereabouts, Doyle joins the criminal band of aristocrat Edward Daniels, a group whose members are all tattooed with the image of a black and red snake running down their arm. Will Doyle find Bodie before Daniels' inner circle discovers his deception?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indelibly Marked

**Author's Note:**

> a link to the wonderful art by Cloudless9193
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/472389

Indelibly Marked  
By  
Dawnwind

Doyle watched the black ink tracing over his skin, completely detached from the proceedings. He barely felt the burr of the needle imbedding the design into his flesh, the dark line curving up and over his bicep. If this is what he had to do to keep Bodie safe, so be it. He'd tattoo his face like a Maori native to get the information—he just couldn't let on why he was doing so.

Maintaining the cold, neutral expression that he'd worn for the last few days, Doyle raised his eyes to the four men witnessing his initiation. The tattoo artist didn't count, he was only there to do the work, someone who would be paid well to keep his eyes and ears closed. The other three were men were on a completely different level; cruel, heartless and violent.

All three wore identical black and red serpents on their arms, the symbol of their brotherhood.

"What's next?" Doyle asked boldly. "Out for a pint to let the ink dry?"

"He's funny." Mosby snickered, showing his crooked teeth.

"He's cocky," Daniels said, his flat brown eyes flicking from the snake forming on Doyle's arm down to his groin and back again. There was no trace of emotion on his face but Doyle felt a wave of malevolence from the man, the one who had grabbed Bodie four days earlier. Doyle just had to find his partner before he was killed. If he wasn't dead already.

"And I don't like cocky," Daniels added.

"You prefer surly?" Doyle let his impotent rage consume all the other feelings for Bodie that buffeted his sanity. This was not the time to be weak. Anger kept him on edge.

"I _prefer_ obedient and quiet," Daniels countered, blatantly looking down at Doyle's groin again. The corners of his mouth turned up very slightly when he raised his eyes. There was not an iota of amusement in his smile. "You want in, Doyle, you play by the rules."

"Colour inside the lines, eh?" Doyle stared back into Daniels' dark eyes, unwilling to ever back down. This was a battle he was determined to win. He ignored the constant whine from the tattoo gun, the needle vibrating across his skin, leaving behind an indelible mark.

Daniels barked a laugh and Mosby, the prat, chuckled in echo. Thomson leaned against a wall of display tattoo designs, obviously annoyed at having to hang about.

"Just what me mum always told me," Mosby said, in his irritating, eager-to-please voice. His dark blue eyes were round like a small child's. "It's harder than it oughta be…"

"Shut up, Mosby," Daniels said softly. He didn't have to flaunt his power; Doyle had seen the way the others kowtowed to him. The question was where he had Bodie stashed, and how to get the information out of him.

"Oy," Doyle said to get the attention off himself. The needle bit hard into the tender underside of his arm. _That_ he felt. His detachment was slipping, a chink in his armour he couldn't afford. "No skin off my teeth if you lot take off." He deliberately turned away from Daniels, watching the blond haired tattoo artist delicately etch individual snakeskin scales. "This'll take a long time?"

The tattoo artist shrugged. "Takes as long as it needs to," he answered philosophically and stopped to change needles, lighting a hand-rolled fag at the same time. The long ribbon of smoke wafted into Doyle's face. Marijuana.

The scent reminded him of the joints Bodie had smoked when he was undercover a few years back—why the hell did every single thing make him think of the Scouse bastard? He wanted to blame Bodie. Wanted to blame anybody else for his own inability to keep Bodie safe.

Ultimately, the blame could be put squarely on Cowley's feet. He was in charge, and had assigned them the bloody obbo. When had they ever been able to say no and mean it? Because Doyle had seen in Bodie's eyes that he wanted to back out. Had read it in every line of his body.

"Hell, Mick, get a move on, we ain't got all day," Thomson groused, resettling his butt on a narrow shelf holding a rainbow array of inks.

"You learn to draw on skin in the last day, berk?" Mick blew out another cloud of pungent smoke and poured red ink into a small well. "Takes a bit o'time to make something ye'd want to keep permanent-like." He squinted at Doyle, the cigarette hanging off his bottom lip. "You don't seem the type."

"Just joined up," Doyle said, apprehension doing bad things to his guts. He was very aware of the suspicious vibes coming from his three companions. It took every ounce of his stamina to regain a small measure of his hard-won ennui. "Too right, less talk, more sketching."

"Ingrates, all of ye." Mick fitted the needle into his tattoo gun and powered it up again. "Hate doing this with a fucking audience."

"We stay," Daniels insisted. "Until you finish the damned thing." He flashed the malevolent smile again, and chucked Doyle under the chin as if he were a lad in short pants. "Besides," he almost purred, which sent a freezing chill down Doyle's spine. "I like watching pretty things."

"Then turn on the telly and feast your eyes on… _Shoestring,_ " Doyle said the first TV programme that came to mind, twisting away from Daniels' hand.

"Hold still!" Mick protested. "Unless you want red spots on this snake."

"That Dorian Godwin is quite the looker," Doyle said, keeping his arm steady. He couldn't ignore the sharp ache anymore. The narrow black outlines hadn't been bad, but once Mick started in on the shading, it felt like his skin was being rubbed raw with sandpaper.

"I don't watch…" Daniels started.

"He's keen on Trevor Eve," Mosby said conspiratorially.

Daniels whipped around, smashing Mosby across the face with a backhanded blow. His eyes wide with surprise, Mosby took it with admirable restraint. He didn't cry out or flinch, even when blood dripped from his damaged nose.

"Damn." Mick jerked his hand at the violence, sending an agonizing jolt up Doyle's arm.

Doyle hissed in shock; it was like being stabbed with a scalpel.

Lowering his head, Mick turned off the gun to change needles. "I can fix that."

"You mind your tongue, my lad," Daniels said, standing very close to his victim. "Or there'll be more."

Mosby nodded slowly, using the heel of one hand to wipe some of the gore from his face. Thomson never moved, watching the scene with the wary superiority of an older sibling who knew when to keep silent.

Doyle clenched his jaw. The sudden pain had been mercifully brief. He didn't dare intercede on Mosby's behalf. Partially because the guy was a total idiot, but more importantly because he needed to protect his own back. Until he traced Bodie's steps and found his lost lamb, he was on his own. Even Cowley didn't know how far out on a limb Doyle had gone.

"Fucked up, didja, Mick?" Thomson asked with just a hint of malice, as if he liked provoking the tattoo artist.

Doyle looked down at his emerging snake. Instead of perfectly coloured red scales, there was a splotch of crimson across its back like a spreading bloodstain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You rang, sir?" Bodie asked with a smirk, walking into George Cowley's office.

Doyle crowded in beside him, laughing when Bodie's trailing hand goosed him on the arse. They'd had a grand morning, arguing good-naturedly about what to eat for breakfast since neither had enough in their larders to feed a dormouse. They'd finally settled on a small café with sufficient choices for both their appetites. Bodie had feasted on a full brekker complete with eggs, a grilled tomato, toast plus bacon and sausage. Doyle had eaten a more sedate meal of muesli, yoghurt and bananas.

"Come in, come in," Cowley said, sounding grouchy. "You're late."

"London traffic." Bodie shrugged.

Doyle bobbed his head in agreement. There wasn't much more to add.

"That's a defense, not an excuse." Cowley peered at Bodie through his coke-bottle glasses as if examining a rare species of CI-5 agent under a microscope. "You already knew there would be traffic, you should adjust accordingly."

"Can't predict a lorry overturning on the embankment," Doyle put in.

"Apparently not." Cowley scowled, flipping open a manila envelope.

"You have an assignment for us?" Bodie claimed the chair in front of Cowley's desk and smoothed his indigo silk tie. Obviously preening, he shot the cuffs of his brand new dark blue suit jacket with bit of a gloat.

Doyle indulged in a single admiring glance at his partner. Bodie looked good in the duds he'd bought at the tailor shop the day before. A long-deserved rise in pay had finally been granted, which had increased their pay cheques by a fair percentage. Doyle was of the private opinion that Cowley was quietly trying to appease the two of them. He had been just as frightened as Bodie when Doyle was shot in his own home. Doyle had seen more than concern in Cowley's eyes when he was in the hospital, there had been uncertainty, as well. Uncertainty that he would bounce back from this assault. Their nice new digs, as well as the extra guineas in their pocket might be seen as simple compensation, but Doyle knew better. Cowley cared for his two favourite agents deeply. There was more than just a common garden-variety employer/employee relationship going on between the three of them.

"The home office has become very concerned," Cowley began, the Scottish burr of the R in 'very' more pronounced than usual. "That a man allegedly out of South Africa has been seen in Britain recently."

"Caught those South African passports going through customs?" Bodie made a tsk-tsk with his tongue, his left eyebrow canted more than usual.

"Shocking." Doyle laughed, going with Bodie's mocking tone. "Where are their manners?"

"And what's that to do with us?" Bodie finished.

Cowley leveled his headmaster gaze at them, and Doyle straightened up into a proper listening pose. He felt like he was back in primary school.

"You, Bodie, have ties to South Africa," Cowley said.

"Krivas?" Bodie sat up, the joking attitude gone. "In the past, sir."

"Since you had contact with him not five years ago, I hardly think so." Cowley shuffled through the papers from the manila envelope and came up with a photograph of a young man with shaggy dark hair and the long Hapsburg jaw. He passed it over, consulting a report. "This is Edward Daniels, the youngest son of Lord Burley. Considered a n'ere-do-well by his family, he's considerably more dangerous than that. Interpol has their eye on him for the rape of a young Italian, as well as possible smuggling connections."

Doyle could see Daniels' arrest form on the desk and read the charges, upside down. Not a nice fellow at all.

"He's been in and out of the courts all of his life due to drugs, aggressive behavior and one count of aggravated assault, but never actually served time. Agents at the airport saw Henrik Janssen, a South African who is on the international wanted list for gun trafficking, and followed him. They caught these two together, which raised alarm bells." Cowley passed over another photo. Daniels sat at a small table, bending forward to talk to a thin man with a neat mustache and sunglasses. "He met with Henrik Janssen in a café just outside of Heathrow. Janssen is a known arms dealer from Johannesburg." Cowley shook his head, his disgust with people who perpetuated guerrilla warfare and illegal gun sales well known. "However, we are not sure why. Up until now, Daniels was a bully boy, and while he may have been involved in the selling of drugs, organized arms dealing was not his bailiwick."

"I take it you want us to get in contact with this Janssen and find out what he's after?" Bodie said lightly, but Doyle could hear the tension starting to build.

"Just you, Bodie," Cowley confirmed.

"Because I used to run with Krivas and that lot?" Bodie stood, his dander up. "Isn't that stereotyping? Sir." He gave the honorific an insolent turn.

"It's the economical and best use of available resources," Cowley responded blandly, the desk light reflecting in his spectacles made him look sinister and unapproachable.

"Why just Bodie?" Doyle demanded, a fire burning in his belly. He wasn't keen on the idea of Bodie going to meet an arms dealer solo. It was not only dangerous, but fool-hardy.

"You're still on limited duty, Doyle. You can dig into Janssen's and Daniels backgrounds, ferret out their intentions, find out more about associates, whilst 6.2 works with 3.7 on this operation."

"The bloody hell he will!" Bodie and Doyle said over each other.

Bodie stopped, giving Doyle the floor. "I've been cleared by the doctors and the draconian physiotherapists!" Doyle shouted, leaning angrily against Cowley's desk. "You know that full well!" He'd have said more but he felt the sharp kick of Bodie's right shoe against the back of his calf.

"Bodie knows Janssen's world far better than an ex-police officer," Cowley said with a tight patience, as if he'd rather not have to give any explanation at all. "The names of his former contacts give him an acceptance. You, Doyle, will certainly be a vital part of the assignment, just not on the front lines."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but Doyle knows the names of me former mates from the time with Krivas." Bodie grabbed Doyle's arm, hauling him back to the chair he'd vacated. "I could coach him in any odd bit of gossip needed to get by in a pinch."

"In a pinch?" Cowley shook his head, taking off his glasses with a frown. "You both are well aware that considerably more is necessary when under cover, so I will assume you're just defending him because you don't care to work separately here."

"Never comes out too well," Doyle said out of the corner of his mouth, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest and leaning back in the chair. He'd rather sleep on a bed of nails than send Bodie out alone. Murph was a good man, one of the best, but he wasn't Bodie's other half--his true partner in all things.

"I take it then, Doyle, that I will not have to bring up the scores from your workouts with Macklin from two weeks ago," Cowley said quietly.

"Dirty pool, sir," Bodie retorted with a guarded glance at Doyle.

It was indeed. Although Doyle had sweated through every single exercise the physiotherapists had thrown at him and could still run laps around Bodie in a two man race, he couldn't deny that being shot in the lung had cost him stamina, strength and wind. As if on cue, the tight skin of the largest scar that ran around his left flank tingled. Doyle resisted the urge to reach around and rub his back. The irony was that he was in far better shape than the average Londoner, yet not fully able to back up his partner in the way he once could.

Gritting his teeth, Doyle took the humiliation like a man. "What exactly is Bodie to do, then?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That was almost a week ago. Doyle flexed his sore arm while Mick took time to refill his tattoo gun again, and thought back to the last few times he'd seen Bodie before he disappeared. He could almost taste the tea he'd drunk while they were in the break room after meeting with Cowley. Doyle had been on a tear, venting his frustration and railing against his own inadequacies until Bodie shoved a Bath bun in his mouth and told him to stop abusing the crockery.

Doyle almost smiled, even though the sight of the nearly completed serpent slithering down his arm chilled him. What the hell had he gotten himself into? And would it save Bodie? As angry as Doyle had been at Cowley for sending Bodie out without his partner, Cowley's wrath at what Doyle had done would be ten times worse. He'd be demoted to typing Parliament stats into the computers in the CI-5 basement for the rest of the century. Bodie would laugh at that one.

If only.

 _Bugger_. Thinking about Bodie made him weak when he couldn't afford to be. Feeling tears pricking his eyelids, Doyle blinked and tightened his resolve.

"You'll need to take off your shirt so I can get around the top of your arm," Mick reminded him, decanting a deeper red ink for shadowing.

"And freeze my willy off?" Doyle retorted, mad at himself for wallowing in thoughts of Bodie. "It's a bleeding ice lolly stand in here."

Daniels had been flipping through a catalogue of tattoo art. "Turn on the electric fire, Mosby," he drawled, watching with hungry eyes as Doyle skimmed out of his tee.

Thomson flicked a glance at his boss, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. Doyle read jealousy and impotent anger in the look. Something useful to store away for the future.  
He settled back against the old-fashioned dentist chair, extending his arm again, very aware of Daniel's scrutiny.

"You ready, mate?" Mick asked, the needle poised a bare millimetre above Doyle's flesh.

"Finish the sodding thing," Doyle ground out. It was just skin. He looked away from the dark line trailing from Mick's needle and met Daniels' equally dark eyes. There were times where he seemed to see right through Doyle, as if he could ferret out Doyle's secrets. Which was a very scary thought, indeed.

Daniels crimped his mouth up in a sinister imitation of a smile that sent a rush of adrenaline through Doyle's belly. He had met a fair number of criminals in his day, but few were as inherently unsettling as Edward Daniels. No doubt, his arrest jacket hadn't contained half of the crimes he'd committed, although this phase of insisting that his cohorts prove their loyalty with a tattoo was new. It was very clear that he wanted to control all those around him.

"What's this, then?" Daniels extended a long slender finger, not quite touching the scar that curved around Doyle's ribcage. "Looks fresh."

 _Damn_ — memories washed over Doyle like waves pulling him under the surf.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Bodie…" Doyle whispered against the pillow, but his partner continued his methodical mapping of the scars on Doyle's back.

"This one." Bodie bestowed a kiss that tingled along the damaged nerves, sending zaps of almost pain up Doyle's spine and down to his groin. "I put my hand on this one, felt your heart thuddin' in me palm, blood all over."

"It's past now." Doyle shifted over, trapping Bodie's hand. "That's all in the past. Are we going to relive it every bloody time we…"

"Move forward, you mean?" Bodie drew his hand along Doyle's side, following the length of the scar around to the swell of his chest muscle. "Well enough for you, old son. You didn't see the damage."

"Felt it, didn't I?" Doyle pulled away, sitting up so he was out of range of Bodie's searching fingers. He didn't want to remember that afternoon, with the pain, blood and desolation. He'd lain on his own carpet, barely there and yet so afraid that he'd die alone. He didn't completely let go of consciousness until Bodie arrived to efficiently supervise the rescue. But every time Bodie poked and prodded at the healing wounds, he seemed to let loose all the emotions Doyle had bottled up. As if Doyle's muscles were holding onto the one thing he didn't like to give in to—fear.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sharp jab of the tattoo needle inserting colour into Doyle's flesh brought him back to the present. The damned marijuana in the air must be the reason he kept daydreaming. Doyle looked directly at Daniels, putting every bit of his own aggression into the stare.

Daniels had a secretive, malevolent smirk on his face and he tapped his finger squarely on Doyle's scar. "I see why you didn't want to take your shirt off the other day. You been shot, cock?"

"What gave it away? The sodding placard on me breastbone?" Doyle countered, shoving the fear well back into a dark place in his brain, to be hopefully forgotten.

"He seen the marks on your back," Mosby snickered.

"Hard to miss," Daniels said lazily, but there was something akin to lust burning in his eyes. Pain or violence turned him on. "When'd it happen?"

"Had a dust-up with some of my mates." Doyle set his jaw. The insistent whine of the tattoo gun was wearing on his patience. "Just after Guy Fawkes. Spent some time in hospital, now I'm out. What's it to you?"

"You didn't tell me, is all. I like to know more about my…associates," Daniels said smoothly. "You've only been around a short time, and yet you have some agenda of your own." He stared openly at Doyle's chest before shifting his focus to Mick putting the finishing touches on the snake. "Not many'll go…all the way t'get in tight with me. Takes guts, just like gettin' shot."

"You want my full medical history?" Doyle asked, very grateful when Mick shut down the power on his equipment and brushed off his hands. "Broke an arm once and broke at least ten ribs in me life. On the whole, getting a tattoo's a stroll in the park."

"This done, then?" Thomson spoke up, brazenly interrupting whatever Daniels was about to say. "We going to the house or eating first? I'm bloody starved."

Daniels wrinkled his nose as if smelling something foul, but a second later, his face was smooth and open. "We've got a new lamb in the fold, boys. I think our Raymond will set us up with a few pints and rashers of bacon."

"With what?" Doyle handed Mick a ten pound note and a couple of pound coins. There was literally nothing left in his pockets. He'd left his flat without CI-5 ID or much money because he was supposed to be an out of work penman. The art classes he'd once taken made forgery a good cover story.

"Thought you could just fiddle up a couple of guineas," Daniels goaded, holding out his pale green t-shirt. Mosby giggled again.

"No ink, no plates, no bleeding printing press," Doyle said mildly, plucking the shirt from Daniels' fingers. For one moment, it seemed like Daniels wasn't going to let go, but then he opened his fingers, his eyes darting challenges. Doyle read them loud and clear— _you play my way, or you don't play at all._

"This better not be Monopoly money!" Mick stared at the note in his hand. He held the tenner up to the light, peering at the Queen's regal face.

"Nicked it from the royal treasury, didn't I?" Doyle dropped the very last pound coin into Mick's hand. "It's one hundred percent, never fear. And there's no profit in making coin, too labour intensive. Thanks for the art."

"Be gone with the lot of you," Mick said sourly.

Out on the street, Doyle pulled up his collar against the wet. It had been spitting all day, miserable, drizzling weather that pulled down his spirits even lower. Where was Bodie? Was he dead in a ditch? Or hurting somewhere, cold and damp?

"I want a fried egg butty," Mosby declared, pointing down the lane at a pub called World's End.

Doyle was in a foul enough mood to wonder if that could be the literal truth. If this was the end of the world, he wasn't about to go easily.

"You ain't got a sous, then you'll owe me, won't you, Doyle?" Daniels said sweetly. The twisted smile on his face proved that was exactly how he liked to keep the balance of power.

"Reckon I'll have to sing for my supper then." Doyle pushed on past Thomson, heading for the bright windows of the pub.

"You start warbling like Adam Ant, I'll break your scrawny neck." Thomson flipped a rude gesture at Doyle and punched his fists into his jacket pockets.

Two lagers and a plate of Hunter's Chicken later, Doyle sat back, warily studying his companions. He'd never quite figured out how the three of them got together and but he could now undeniably link Daniels, Janssen, and Bodie. Daniels was dangerous, a true sociopath who kept those around him under his thumb. He liked to completely dominate and control those around him, starting with Mosby, his lapdog.

Thomson was a harder nut to crack. Doyle hadn't discerned the reason Thomson was there except possibly as muscle. He had a serpent on his left arm, and worked as Daniels' right hand man, but there was more to it than mere loyalty. Mosby submitted because that was his nature, but Thomson's connection was something far darker and kinkier. He craved pure violence. Daniels had a few other followers, but only those he handpicked for his inner circle wore the red snake on one arm.

"Get our Raymond another one, Mosby," Daniels said. "Can't let him go wanting."

"No more for me, thanks." Doyle flattened his hand over his glass. The residual marijuana in the tattoo shop must have affected him more than he realized because he was drunker than usual was after only two beers.

"Can't refuse him," Thomson murmured, spreading his fingers flat on the table. The letters F-E-A-R tattooed above his left hand knuckles seemed overly visible.

Doyle was boxed into the booth with Daniels on one side and Thomson on the other. The only way out was to crawl under the table, and he wasn't about to turn tail and run.

"Scotch?" Mosby asked, popping up from where ever he had been. He held up a bottle and his round face looked even stupider than usual.

"This is a special occasion." Daniels drained the last of his Guinness. "A good malt whisky for all of us, to welcome our new colleague."

Doyle closed his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He watched Bodie lift a small glass of Glenlivet to the light. His partner turned the glass and the tawny liquor glowed like a piece of Danish amber. Bodie took a sip, savoring the strong flavour and toasted their boss. Cowley raised his glass and downed the entire contents with a satisfied sigh.

"Got the call this morning, sir," Bodie continued. "Janssen has agreed to meet me. The intel was correct, he was at the Edwardian Hotel. Rang him up, used Cusack's name as an opening gambit and advanced across the board in no time at all. Ol' Cusack may be retired…"

Doyle chuckled. The gun dealer had sung that song every single time they'd ever gone to see him, but always had the exact weapon needed right on hand, nonetheless.

"Good, good." Cowley nodded, pouring more whisky for himself.

Finishing his own, Doyle knew better than to ask for more. It was Cowley's bottle, he controlled the portions, just as he controlled everything else at CI-5.

"When and where?" Cowley demanded.

"Murphy's already put in a request for a bug and the meeting is set up for the Swan Inn off Fulham Road in Chelsea on the 'morrow. Doyle'n and me've been there for a reconnoiter." Bodie smiled at his partner, "There's two ways in and out, a quiet street corner, but not secluded, and space for the van to park adjacent, close enough for Murph to get a good listen in."

"Do you have a more specific grasp of Janssen's agenda?" Cowley swung around to Doyle, the force of his attention like a physical weight.

"Yeah…" Doyle touched the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth, putting his facts in order. "Went round to some old snitches who gave me the names of Edward Daniels' mates. He'd a weird bloke, all right. Wants to get out of his own play yard and start hobnobbing with the big boys. Which is apparently why he met up with Janssen."

"He has connections to guns?" Bodie asked, licking his lips after finishing his drink. He knew better than to ask for seconds, too.

"No," Cowley said grimly. He smacked his palm on the desk, causing papers to flutter. "How could I have been so blind? Lord Burley."

"His father." Bodie sat up straighter. "Of course! Lord Burley is chairing a committee in Parliament on gun regulations in Britain."

"He's not exactly silent about it, either," Doyle agreed, leaning on hip on the étagère.

"The man's been all over the Times and BBC lately expounding on the American constitution," Cowley growled. "Life, liberty and…"

"The right to bear arms." Bodie crossed his arms with a slight frown. "By which, he does not mean a rifle for fox hunting. He wants the local constabulary to carry Uzis and Kalashnikovs."

"Good luck with that!" Doyle would have chuckled if it weren't for the fact that they were already half there. Gone were the days when he had walked a beat with nothing but a nightstick. Most local police didn't carry a gun, but all public buildings were now guarded by soldiers armed with semi-automatic weapons. The last time he'd been to the Victoria and Albert museum, he'd nearly been pat searched. "Mrs. Thatcher will never stand for that."

"Doesn't stop Lord Burley from shouting his opinion from the rooftops," Cowley said.

"He's arrogant and pompous, with just the right dash of eccentric aristocracy to lull most people into complacency," Bodie observed soberly. "He's on the telly often enough, the public will just chuckle over their morning cuppa and roll their eyes, then he'll find the right loophole, and huzzah—suddenly, the new law's gone through Parliament and Britain will forge ahead of the US in shooting deaths."

Cowley looked like he'd tasted something sour. "And, no doubt, if his Lordship expects to have any success in the changing precedent, then he will have already approached gun exporters, manufacturers and dealers to have facts and figures easily on hand, if requested."

"So, his son would have no difficulty ferreting out the names and places, even if he's never actually spoken to the sellers," Bodie said. "Which puts me in good stead. I just have to convince Janssen that this Daniels is a poseur without any stock on hand, and that I've got the goods."

"Yes, that should work." Cowley removed his glasses, peering through the lenses as if he needed to clean them. "The main question is how we reel Janssen in without coercion or entrapment?"

"Can be done, sir." Bodie gave a little Gallic shrug.

Pure hubris, Doyle thought. Bodie didn't want for self-esteem, that was for certain. Equally as certain, Doyle was jealous. He hated admitting that, but it was true. He yearned for the days when he and Bodie were out there, side by side, united against the enemy. Instead, he was sitting in the office, looking up intel that Betty could have done, probably far better.

"Doyle?" Cowley had apparently decided his lenses passed muster. He put them back on, reassuming the look of a wise old owl. "I take it you have reservations?"

"You're already more than aware of them, old man." Doyle shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. He didn't feel like getting into the whole disagreement again. It was like a Monty Python skit, anyway. He could argue until he was blue in the face, but Cowley wouldn't participate fully. His single 'no' was all there was to it.

"Sounds like our Raymond needs a little lie down," Bodie said with just a hint of teasing.

"Oh, shove off!" Doyle pointed one finger at his partner. "I don't need it from you, too!"

 _But Bodie's eyes said that he did,_ and Doyle felt that want, right there in Cowley's office.

Bodie flashed him a smile that held part triumph and a smidgen of sympathy. "It's just that now that Doyle is back on the squad, we're more….accustomed to working together. Isn't that right, Ray?"

"I will continue looking into Daniels' background," Doyle said sourly, wishing that they weren't in Cowley's office so that he could raise two stiff fingers under Bodie's nose. "Though many of his juvenile records are sealed, he's been a right bastard and gotten out of some situations purely on his father's name."

"That happens far too often." Cowley nodded. "Keep me informed, 3.7."

"Ah, to have aristocracy in the family—privilege and influence right at one's fingertips," Bodie drawled in a plumy voice. "Getting back to what you said earlier, what makes Daniels weird? In your considered opinion."

"Word is that he frequents places catering to kinky pleasures," Doyle explained, leaning against Bodie's chair. "And keeps a scrum of mates around him, never goes anywhere without them."

"How's that any different than any other bully boy?" Bodie tipped his head back to look up at him.

"To prove their loyalty, they all got tattooed." Doyle put out his right arm, laying it on the back of Bodie's chair, which aligned his forearm alongside Bodie's cheek. "With a large dragon or a serpent of some kind."

"Hmm." Cowley wrote that down on sheet attached to the picture of Daniels and Janssen. "You have this on good authority?" he asked as if not actually expecting an answer. Doyle nodded while Cowley peered at the photograph. "He has on a padded jacket, so any skin art is not visible."

"Makes it easy to identify a fellow in the morgue," Bodie said, his usual black humour on display. He turned his head slightly, accidentally or on purpose brushing against Doyle's bare wrist. "I prefer unblemished skin myself."

A lazy warmth rose up from Doyle's groin, spiraling around his spine. Quite inappropriate in the work place. He chuckled low and deep, and moved his arm away. Bodie echoed his laugh, his blue eyes flashing sparks.

"Few women have tattoos," Cowley said quite out of the blue. "But I do recall a bonny lassie called Mary MacDhougal who had the Loch Ness monster tattooed…" He broke off, looking flustered, and gathered the scattered reports he'd been reading back into the file. "If that's all, then we all know what is to be done. And you two can get to work."

"I'm quite interested in this Miss MacDhougal," Bodie said with all innocence, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

"3.7.," Cowley said archly, and Bodie straightened up like the good soldier that he had been. "4.5, I'd like a photo of that tattoo, if at all possible, and anything else you dig up on this Daniels. May not pay off for this case, but it could be important, none the less."

"All information is important," Doyle intoned with just the right amount of sarcasm. Bodie smirked and hauled him out of Cowley's office.

"What's got your knickers in a twist?" Bodie nudged Doyle with the point of his elbow. "No use stewing about it. Not the first time one of us has had to sit out an obbo…"

"And what usually happens?" Doyle growled, the little buzz of lust completely gone. "I can handle sitting on the sidelines, what I won't abide is you…" He shook his head violently, the fear rising up in his chest like a rampaging beast. Maybe it was his own recent brush with death or some morbid premonition, but he really didn't want Bodie meeting Janssen at the Swan.

"Doyle." Bodie grabbed his arm. Doyle swung around so fast he would have slugged Bodie but for the appearance of Murphy just out of the elevator. As it was, Doyle slammed his fist into the wall millimetres from his partner's ear. The shockwave reverberated up his arm, jamming his shoulder back.

"Bugger!" Doyle gasped, pain zipping through the scars on his chest and back as if they were telephone lines.

"Bodie!" Murphy propelling himself in between them, shoving Doyle away. "Why'd he…?"

"Didn't put a mark on this handsome face," Bodie said sardonically, eyeing Doyle. "Hurt yourself, did you?"

"Yeah." Doyle cradled his throbbing arm against his body, trying to breathe through the pain.

"Either aim better next time or count to ten before you explode." Bodie cocked an eyebrow at him, looking for all the world like he was about to laugh.

"What started this?" Murphy asked, obviously bewildered.

"He's troubled, poor laddie," Bodie said in a fair approximation of Cowley's brogue. "Needs exercise and some lubrication…"

"I'm not some wild horse about to kick down his stall," Doyle countered, able to see some of the humour in the situation. He probably looked the fool.

Bodie peered at a smudge on the wall. "I'll refrain from comment to avoid a repeat performance." He threw a companionable arm around Murphy's shoulder. "Have you obtained the bug, my good man?"

"Got it, and will install it tomorrow morning before you meet with Janssen." Murphy glanced at Doyle. "You coming to the pub with us?"

For a moment, Doyle was confused—or thought that Murphy was, until he realized the invitation was for right that moment and not the next morning. "Not thirsty," he muttered.

"Well, I am, and where I go, you go." Bodie reeled him in, giving him a stare that said plainly, _stay with me._

"Then you're paying," Doyle said, joining them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Murphy left after two Newcastles, since he had to be up early to plant the bug, dressed in a scruffy uniform under the pretense that he was at the Swan to inspect some electrical circuit.

Doyle knew that he shouldn't, but he drowned his indignation in drink, consuming far too many in the course of the evening. He thought that Bodie was matching him, pint for pint, but Bodie managed to stay sober whilst he was beginning to wobble by eleven p.m.

"Let's toddle on home," Bodie said in his ear.

The din in the pub was atrocious, some Irish heavy metal band pounding out an atonal version of _Stairway to Heaven_ on the drums and electric guitar. Doyle winced when the amplifier squealed. He squinted at his partner through the haze of cigarette smoke from the fellow on their left and thought he'd never seen him look better. Bodie radiated bonhomie, and yet still kept a certain dark edge, no matter how jovial or silly he acted. His years as a mercenary had honed his reaction times and his ability to read a man in an instant.

"I've been a nutter." Doyle stood, only wobbling a little bit. "You'll do fine with Janssen."

"You doubted that?" Bodie's left eyebrow tilted higher than usual.

"I doubted Janssen."

"You always have to see the glass half empty, don't you?"

"Not tonight." Doyle gave him a tight smile. "I drank 'em all down." The way to the front door was clogged with fans of the band all dancing wildly to the so-called music. Most of them obviously couldn't recognize a decent tune if they heard one.

"Impressive, taking on all those lagers and not giving up until they were all dead soldiers." Bodie elbowed past a couple of girls in punk attire; pink hair standing straight up like the coifs of psychedelic American Indians, safety pins through their ears and ripped stockings under mini skirts.

"Sod off, granddad." One of the girls raised two fingers in a stiff salute.

"Your majesty." Bodie bowed with one hand over his belly. "I didn't recognize you in that kit."

"Bodie!" Doyle dragged on his arm to get him through the throng of gyrating teens. How had they suddenly turned into the older generation? He remembered the Beatles and Rolling Stones with a sudden pang, and gratefully inhaled the foggy night air when they made it out of the pub. "It's all changed, hasn't it?"

"Not entirely." Bodie scooped his arm around Doyle's waist, pulling him close.

They were just outside the busy establishment, and it didn't seem like the safest place to linger, but Doyle couldn't quite manage a reason why they should move along. He wanted Bodie with such fierce desire. Wanted him naked, smooth and warm and alive against his skin, right now.

"Doyle?" Bodie whispered.

"Yeah." Doyle ducked his head, miserable, tired, and very drunk.

"Capri's around the corner, in the car park."

"You'll have to drive."

"I can, you know." Bodie laughed, keeping him on his feet as they meandered down the sidewalk. "Learned how when I was still in my school uni."

Doyle eyed him, skeptically. The fresh air was clearing out his head. "I'm not as drunk as you think I am. I could drive."

"You're mental." Bodie stopped in front of the car, his laughing face such a compelling sight that Doyle did kiss him right out in the open then. Just once, a quick, furtive thing, but satisfying.

"Save the rest for my flat," Bodie whispered, longing in his voice.

Doyle could feel the jut of Bodie's erection against his leg. He forced himself to take a step back and walk resolutely around the car to the passenger door with an odd feeling that this was the last time he might ever do so.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They made it inside the flat just, stripping their clothes off as they went. Doyle gasped when Bodie grabbed him and turned him against the wall. He struggled, pushing back but Bodie was having none of that. Roughly shoving Doyle into the wainscoting, Bodie clasped both his wrists to keep him there and yanked Doyle's trousers down past his thighs.

"You're mine tonight, eh?" Bodie whispered, panting, holding him with feral strength. He had never taken off his black leather driving gloves. Doyle could feel the soft, pliant leather against his skin. "It's my turn." Bodie insisted. "You need to be taken down a peg."

Doyle nodded, scraping his cheek against the uneven surface of the old-fashioned wall paper. He'd wanted to take the lead, but there would be time to switch around later.

"Yeah?" Bodie goaded him, using one knee to widen Doyle's stance. "You with me?"

"Fool," Doyle said, dry-mouthed, and squirmed just to feel Bodie's knee dig into his groin.

Bodie kissed Doyle at the nape of his neck, pushing the longish curls away to nuzzle him there and then run his tongue down Doyle's spine to his arse.

Doyle closed his eyes, submitting, feeling the irrational anger and jealousy melt under his partner's attentions. Sometimes, he needed it hard and fast; brutal. Bodie was the only one he'd ever abide such treatment from. If anyone else had done him like that, he'd have slugged them right in the face and then left. But with Bodie, the boundaries dropped away as if they never were.

His heart sped up when Bodie's tongue dipped into his hole. "N-not yet…" Doyle managed before Bodie growled low and deep in his throat.

"You're pushing your luck, my son," Bodie squashed him flat, smashing Doyle's erection up into his belly where it throbbed in time with his pulse. "You move and I'll bind your wrists with my tie."

Doyle barked a laugh, trying to kick back with his legs but his jeans were around his ankles, effectively hobbling him. Bodie drove one leather-gloved hand into the small of his back, not hard enough to stun, but a good deterrent to movement.

"You weren't wearing a tie today," Doyle said, picturing the black polo neck and black trousers Bodie had worn.

"I come prepared for any eventuality," Bodie crooned, just this side of nasty. "In case we went to tea at the Cow's club…" He reached down and extricated the tie from one jacket pocket. Humming a raunchy song, he quickly wound it around Doyle's wrists. Loosely enough that Doyle could easily have gotten free, if he'd wanted to.

He didn't.

"Boy scout," Doyle taunted over his shoulder, surrendering to the lust and drive that he'd needed so badly before. His whole body felt hot, on fire, as if Bodie's touch would cause sparks to fly. "What else've you got?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Bodie chuckled, soothing the bruise he'd made with a gentle caress to Doyle's derriere.

His hand came away and Doyle missed the contact. He could feel Bodie moving behind him and resisted the urge to peek. He'd been told to stay still. For once, he followed orders, too tired of fighting every command he had ever been given. A drawer opened and closed, and the sound of some sort of tube being mashed.

Bodie thrust a lubricated finger into Doyle's anus up to the knuckle in one smooth move. Doyle sucked in air, feeling like he'd been skewered on a spit. It didn't hurt—he was far too used to anal penetration, but the sudden assault left him wanting the real thing.

"Been a long time," Bodie commented, removing his leather-gloved finger. He cupped Doyle's butt cheeks, spreading them gently. "You really are such a tempting little git…" Bodie centred himself on his target and shoved.

Feeling the blunt, insistent push of Bodie's cock, Doyle relaxed, accepting the intruder with ease. As always, once Bodie had sheathed himself fully, Doyle was sure he could feel that long shaft up into his chest. His interior muscles twitched and burned, but it was more than good, it was incredible.

"This what you want, Raymond?" Bodie panted, thrusting deeper with each word.

"Yeah," Doyle admitted, his mouth dry, his body aching with desire.

Doyle slammed into the molded paneling on the wall hard enough to leave bruises on his hipbones. He closed his eyes, unresisting, taking Bodie in with a welcome heart. He tried to heave backward, maybe loosen the bonds on his wrists so that he could fist his own cock into completion. Bodie gave him a little shake, biting him on the back of the neck like a tomcat just as he came with a roar.

"You remember this, damn, you!" Doyle shouted, finally freeing his arms to reach back and hold Bodie in place. "You remember this tomorrow, and you'd better return afterwards."

"How could I forget?" Bodie wrapped both arms around Doyle, still trapped inside him.

They didn't move for a long time.

"You never came," Bodie said softly, disengaging himself.

Doyle groaned, from his body releasing Bodie or his own aching balls, he wasn't sure. "No," he said tiredly, turning so that they both could see his hard erection. He'd go off like a rocket if he touched himself now. "Wanted your mouth. Nothin' else."

"All you had to do was ask." Bodie smiled sweetly. He looked debauched; wearing black driving gloves and nothing else. With his hair all tousled and sweaty, he could have been the centrefold model in a woman's magazine.

Kneeling, Bodie bowed his head submissively, waiting until Doyle angled himself into Bodie's open mouth.

Heat, warm and wet as the tropics, enveloped Doyle. He dropped his head back against the wall, barely supporting his own weight. He and Bodie were joined, a single unit, each giving the other strength.

Bodie took his time, pampering and teasing Doyle's cock at the same time. He swirled his tongue, spiraling around the length until Doyle was sure he would explode. He was surprised he _hadn't_ climaxed the moment Bodie closed his talented lips over the crown, but he was enjoying the sublime treatment so completely that it was a pleasure to hold off. His thighs trembled and he kept trying to catch his breath, but it was no use. Doyle's scrotum tightened, his cock swelling even bigger in the confines of Bodie's mouth.

Closing his eyes, Doyle orgasmed, emptying himself into his lover. Bodie made a strangled noise and pulled off with a crooked grin.

Doyle wanted to preserve that memory of him forever, tattoo it on his brain like a talisman.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning was hectic, starting with a mild argument over priorities before Doyle had even poured milk over his Weetabix. He stared at Bodie standing at the cooker with a spatula in his hand and bit the inside of his cheek. What the bloody hell were they fighting about?

"It's not…" Doyle started, considering how to explain his position. "Murph's there for you, but I…"

"Green eyed monster, you are," Bodie said with arch impatience, poking at his fried egg.

"It's not jealousy!" Doyle exploded, pushing his dish away so violently that the Weetabix scattered across the counter. "You're walking into a trap, you know that, don't you?"

"Doyle, it's just another job." Bodie rescued his egg from the pan before it burned to a crisp and placed it squarely on a crumpet, adding slice of tomato for a breakfast sandwich. He took a large bite, dripping tomato juice down his naked chest. "To scope out this bloke. Nothing out of the ordinary. You're imagining things that aren't real, Mr. Carroll."

"Think I'm falling down a rabbit hole, do you?" Doyle shoved both feet into his trainers and did up the laces fast, seething, although he didn't know why. He just ached inside. Anger, fear and yes—a small portion of jealousy were all mixed up together. "Just be careful not to imbibe anything labeled 'drink me' at the Swan."

"Go for a run, it'll do you good," Bodie said, finishing his breakfast. "Blow the bats out of your belfry."

"Sod off," Doyle said loudly. "Just don't leave before I come back."

"I won't," Bodie called over his shoulder, going into the bathroom.

But he did.

Doyle found the note when he returned, feeling oddly rested for having run ten kilometres. An envelope that Bodie must have fished out of the rubbish bin was stuck to the wall above the telephone with cello tape. All it said was, _'Cowley called me in early for a briefing. Be back here at 4.00.'_

Doyle crumpled up the envelope and pitched it across the floor where it rolled under the telly. Damn fool. He had a mind to go over to The Swan and stroll in, order a perry, just to keep an eye on Bodie.

But he knew he wouldn't.

Couldn't, really. It would jeopardize Bodie on a mission, and undermine their trust in one another. Not to mention that Cowley would have his guts for garters. He had to sit this one out with dignity. His job was to suss out this Daniels, and that was what he was going to do. He didn't have to tell The Cow that he was going out in the field instead of sitting behind a desk and reading old arrest warrants.

Tidying up the kitchen took longer than usual, what with Weetabix all over the counter, and a few on the floor that Doyle naturally stepped on. He took out a bit of his anger on the skillet, scouring away all signs of Bodie's cholesterol laden brekker. Only then did he allow himself to shower, standing under the spray with a heavy heart. Jeans and a t-shirt were the uniform of the day. His usual, but also exactly what was needed to lull Daniels and his lot into thinking that Doyle was just some ordinary bloke, out of work and on the dole, looking for something livelier.

Doyle stood naked in front of the mirror and examined himself critically. Except for the bruises and marks Bodie had left on his body, he looked fit enough for the squad. He'd lost some muscle and tone during his convalescence but lots of exercise and training with that sadist Macklin had improved things all round. He felt like he was in top shape. But apparently not enough to satisfy the review board, damn them.

He pressed his fingers against the edge of the scar that curved along his left flank to the back, like the tail of a cat wrapped around his ribs. It didn't hurt any longer, but it retained the afterimage of pain. He still wanted to flinch away from contact anywhere along the path of the surgeon's scalpel, even when Bodie touched him there. It wasn't just the memory of pain that held him fast, more the idea that someone could be that destructive, that vindictive, and just leave him to die.

He'd been shot before. Been beaten up, knifed and blown up, but this last injury had left more of an indelible impression, and not because he had such very visible scars. He hated feeling so damned vulnerable. The memory of lying there, unable to move, drowning in his own blood, swamped him at the worst times. He had to let go of the fear or he really would be worthless on the A-squad.

With a growl, Doyle yanked on his yellow shirt and stuffed both legs into his jeans. He hadn't even noticed until he had the beaded cowboy belt buckled that he'd selected Bodie's favourite jeans, the ones with the patch just over his arse. Bodie always walked slightly behind him when he was wearing these. Had said that he couldn't take his eyes off the darker blue denim plastered on Doyle's backside.

Picking up his razor, Doyle reconsidered shaving. Cowley liked his men smooth-cheeked and well groomed, but the shaggier look was better for an undercover op. Doyle grinned fiendishly at his reflection, scratching at his scruffy chin. Sod shaving. He shook his mop of hair, releasing a flurry of water droplets, and left without running a comb through the thicket.

Grabbing his jacket, Doyle picked up his R/T, trying to decide whether to take it along, or not. Regulations said have it on him at all times, so he could be contacted. Regulations were meant to be broken. After all, he hadn't shaved—and he wasn't telling anyone where he was going so Cowley wouldn't get up his nose about the unauthorized reconnoiter.

"4.5?" the R/T squawked, Bodie hailing him.

"Well! Decided to stay in touch after all?" Doyle snarked, thumbing the talk button on his way out of his flat.

"Listen, I had no choice!" Bodie said fast. "Cowley was in a lather this morning. If we want to convince Janssen I'm the real deal, then we need a load of guns. Enough to look like I've got merchandise to sell, or he'll go with this Daniels lad."

Doyle stopped cold, his heart rate speeding up. "You weren't doing that this morning, were you?"

"No."

Doyle heard the low drone of the car engine across the radio waves. Bodie was obviously driving. Probably on his way to the meet. Always wise to get there before the appointed hour to scope out the place and be on the alert for sneak attack.

"But Father wants me to be ready in case Janssen insists on visiting the guns straight away," Bodie added. "We checked a few AK-47s, some Kalashnikovs and some small armaments out of lock-up, and appointed McCabe in charge of setting up an out of the way warehouse as a clearing house. Got plans this morning, Sunshine?"

"No more than usual," Doyle answered, not quite sure why he didn't own up about his plan to infiltrate Daniels' territory. "Still checking out the riff-raff."

"Going to be out of range soon," Bodie said. "I'll see you this afternoon, then?"

There was a long pause, but Doyle knew Bodie hadn't clicked off yet. He thought about telling his partner to be careful, or something daft like that. Kept rejecting various versions of the same idiotic warnings when Bodie spoke again.

"Doyle, what are you wearing?"

Cross all over again, but amused just the same, Doyle said, "Lost your chance to find out, didn't you?"

"Aw, don't be like that," Bodie wheedled. "Jeans, then?"

"Could be." Doyle hauled up the garage door and stood looking at his motorbike.

"Yellow t-shirt, and that leather jacket with the stripes, innit it?"

 _How did he know so precisely?_ Smiling in spite of himself, Doyle shook his head and dug into the cycle panniers for leather riding chaps to put on over his jeans. "You may have psychic powers, my lad, but you're still at the Swan, and I am driving out right now, so you lose."

Bodie gave a dirty little chuckle. "See you this afternoon, sunshine."

"Is that a promise?" Doyle asked before clicking off. He wheeled his motorbike out and swung one leg over the seat. Switching the throttle on, he roared down Lillian Court to Fitzroy Street.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Daniels and his cohorts hung out in a pub called The Highwaymen, which was so apropos that Doyle had to loiter in the lane for a moment to prevent amused smirking while entering. The interior was dark and smoky, with a vague scent of weed under the overpowering aroma of heavy Gallic cigarettes and those vile Turkish smokes. Doyle wrinkled his nose, glad of the distraction because it put him in a foul mood. Despite the fact that it was only just past opening time, the place was full of men.

He sauntered up to the bar. "Brown ale," he grunted.

The barman, a thick necked lout with a grizzly chin and no hair at all on the top of his knobby head, nodded. He pulled down a handle marked Newcastle, pouring foamy brown ale into a glass and slid it over to Doyle.

Sipping his beer, Doyle slouched against the bar, casually scanning the crowd. Sure enough, he spotted Daniels at a table on the left, sitting with three other men. S. Mosby and E. Thomson, he recited silently, but he didn't know which was which because there'd been no photographs of the lads in CI-5's files. The third one was a mystery. Daniels had a few more associates, but those were the most current names available.

One of the three was a fair haired boy with a bent nose and a shiner who didn't look older than 18. He stood warily, arguing with Daniels.

Doyle took a drink, and carried his glass around the bar until he was within earshot of Daniels' group. He picked at a bowl of pretzels as if that had been his destination all along. He'd never been much fond of pretzels. They were far too salty. He gulped his beer after eating only two, watching the drama over the rim of his glass.

"I can't!" the boy said desperately. "Me mum…"

"Still sucking from your mummy's titty!" A round faced git with crooked teeth giggled.

"Shut up, Mosby," Daniels snapped. "Our Rod has a decision to make, doesn't he?" He looked around the table, staring down each one of them. The blond boy, Rod, blanched and fidgeted. Mosby sucked up more beer, barely meeting Daniels' eye, and a third man with long straight brown hair raised his chin, looking back at Daniels in defiance.

At the last moment, he backed down, obviously accepting his place in the pecking order. "Either you get it…" The man pointed a finger at Rod. He had letters tattooed over each knuckle, but Doyle couldn't read what they said.

At least he knew which were Mosby and Thomson now. The third one might be Rodney Lebeouff, if he remembered the names correctly.

"Or you're out." Daniels shrugged as if it made no difference to him. "I can't abide a fence sitter, Roddy-love. You want in on the money and the birds, you have to pay the piper, first." His voice was light, airy, but there was an aura of malevolence to him that made even Doyle uncomfortable.

Pretending to accidentally spill the pretzels on the floor, Doyle used the manoeuvre to look more closely at the group. He knelt to pick up the bowl.

Daniels smiled lewdly and leered at Rod. "You're pretty enough for once or twice, Rod, but I have me standards."

Rod blushed, putting a hand on his black eye. "I have to go, we're up to Oxford this weekend, to…"

"Want me to provide a little more persuasion?" the brunet asked pleasantly, his oddly pale eyes opaque in the dim light.

"Best let him go then, Thomson." Daniels shook his head.

Rod sagged, relief written all over his face.

"But, mark my words," Daniels said so softly that Doyle nearly missed the threat, "I hear you've been flapping your gob about, you'll wish you'd paid."

"Honest, Eddy, I'd never!" Rod stammered, backing away. "I'll be gone, at any rate. Off to school. I…"

"Get stuffed," Thomson said mildly and Rod fled, the door to the pub slamming behind him.

"Another one?" the barman asked Doyle, drawing his attention back to his drink.

"Yeah." Ray handed over the pretzel bowl. "Fell on the floor."

"Hell of a thing," the barman said with a raised eyebrow. "Jumped off the bar, did it?"  
He poured another glass of beer and inclined his head over at the table where Daniels was now conferring softly with Mosby and Thomson. "I'd steer clear of that lot, if I were you."

"Bad seeds?" Doyle asked, enjoying the deep, rich taste of the beer this time. He'd drunk the last one too fast.

"Waste of a table." The barman shrugged, and abruptly turned his back to fetch a new bowl of snacks.

Doyle turned just in time to see Thomson coming toward him. He was about Bodie's size, maybe slightly taller, with a powerful chest and looked like he used his height to intimidate.

"Bern!" Thomson yelled, smacking the bar rail. "More all around!" He glanced sideways at Doyle, sneering. "You're new."

Bracing his elbows on the bar behind him, Doyle met his eyes nonchalantly. "You know everyone who comes in here?"

"I make it my business to."

"It's my business to go where I like, then, unless you have a job for me, mate," Doyle said, raising his glass. Taking another sip of his beer, he saw Daniels appraising him as if Doyle was a high-priced bauble at Sotheby's, and he was about to put in a bid. The look in the man's cold eyes sent a shiver down Doyle's spine, but he didn't let it show.

"Haven't you heard?" Thomson jeered. "The old lady PM ain't got jobs for us working sods."

"The rich get rich and the poor get poorer," Doyle agreed. "But I haven't exactly had my name on a legitimate payroll in years. Not where I put in my hand. Worked as an independent artist, if you get my meaning."

"Sorry, old son." Thomson showed the first glimmer of a sense of humour. He screwed a finger in his ear. "Can't hear you."

Doyle saw the letter F tattooed at the base of his left index finger. E, A and R were inscribed on the other three fingers. _Fear._

Lovely.

Thomson collected three drinks, carrying them over to Daniels. Placing them on the table, he traded glances with Daniels and then looked back at Doyle. "Maybe my hearing will improve if you're back another day. Never know."

 _He had an in_. Doyle kept his satisfaction to himself. "Never know," he repeated and raised his glass in a toast. Daniels watched with hooded eyes, but Mosby giggled and held up his new glass in response.

He finished his beer facing the bar, only catching glimpses of Daniels' group in a fancy mirror on the wall that advertised Martini and Rossi. The letters partially obscured his view, and he really learned nothing else new. After a respectable ten minutes, he sauntered out, slowly, very aware that Daniels watched his arse the whole way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Doyle spent the afternoon in the research centre of CI-5, learning all he could on Edward Daniels' father Phillip James Daniels, the Second, also known as the current Lord Burley. In his photographs, Lord Burley had a long slender face, graying dark hair, and was always dressed impeccably. He was the son of the late Exchequer Lord Burley who had run Britain's economic and finance ministry the year a baby Raymond Doyle was born. The Daniels clan had oodles of money, the bulk of it inherited, and several residences, both in England and on the continent. The main house was Burley, the family estate in Cuddesdon, Oxfordshire county. There was also a flat in Kensington, plus a small country home in the Lake Country, and villas on the Mediterranean in both France and Italy.

Doyle whistled soundlessly between his teeth, making a few notations on a pad.

A very well connected family, indeed, although it didn’t appear that young Edward was his father's fair-haired boy. Tatler Magazine's annual Little Black book which compiled a list of the most eligible aristocrats, heirs and nearly royals under thirty, counted Phillip James Daniels, the Third, a dour faced bloke who didn't have any of his younger brother's dark magnetism, as a rising star. He was the one all the Sloan Street rangers were vying for. At twenty-five, he was a graduate of Oxford, although the text didn't specify which college, and was destined to follow his father and grandfather into politics. Tatler neglected to say anything on the younger male Daniels, Edward. There was also a sister called Lavender, already married to a junior solicitor. Apparently mum had succumbed to cancer some years before.

Doyle had gleaned far more about Edward from his snitches. However, Lord Burley wasn't just an advocate for arming British households with semi-automatics and the odd hand grenade in case of attack from un-named undesirables. His Tory leanings had garnered him much political clout from the conservative older generations. He was apparently very close to cutting Edward off from the family because Edward's criminal activities didn't jibe with his father's respectable public face. Who knew if young Eddy had learned his deviant ways at his father's knee, but Doyle suspected that Italian rape charges and meeting with gun runners were just the tip of Edward's iceberg. He'd learned to go with his gut instinct back when he was patrolling the streets in a Panda. After seeing Daniels in the pub, his gut had punched him hard with a single word: psychopath.

Which made things very dicey indeed. Doyle didn't consider himself any sort of expert on people with psychological disorders, and he'd certainly dealt with some nasty, dangerous criminals in his time. But a man who was possibly a sadist, without a single drop of moral or ethical conscience, was another thing entirely. He wasn't sure he even wanted to get near Daniels again, much less go after him. If he had to continue to pursue this angle, he certainly would not step aside because of his own squeamishness. Especially since the whole reason he'd been sidelined on this oppo was that Macklin and Cowley considered him too weak to take on the task.

About to doze off over his micro-film reader, Doyle rewound the last spool and deposited it in the return bin. He needed a bracing cup of tea and some food. To his surprise, it was half past four. He'd been tucked up in research for three hours, ever since he returned from the Highwayman pub. Surely Bodie must have got back from meeting with Janssen by now.

The break room was deserted, although the electric kettle was still hot, and Doyle made himself a cup of tea with lots of milk. Some kind person, probably Lily, one of the junior clerks, had left out a box of plain digestives. Taking one, Doyle hitched one hip up on the edge of the table and had his afternoon tea in comfortable silence. He was eager to hear what Bodie had learned, and what the next step in the case was against Janssen. Since the arms dealer had never seen him, maybe Doyle would be able to join his partner when he brought Janssen to check out the weapons at the warehouse.

With renewed spirit, Doyle rinsed out his cup, ready to go find Bodie. He stepped out the door and nearly collided with Murphy, who jumped back in alarm, his face pale.

"Hell, Murph!" Doyle cried, holding out a warning hand. "Watch where you're going. Second time this week we've nearly collided."

"I came looking for you, didn't I?" Murphy said irritably. He shoved his fringe on his forehead, glancing around. "Have you heard from Bodie?"

An icy chill went down Doyle's spine. "What's happened?" he demanded, ready to slam Murphy up against a wall and interrogate him on every second that had passed since Doyle spoke with Bodie that morning.

Murphy took a deep breath which did nothing to decrease Doyle's foreboding. Murphy wouldn't be reluctant to speak if Bodie was sharing a wee dram with Cowley in the old man's office.

"What?"

"He met Janssen at the Swan, just as expected," Murphy started, speaking too fast as if he wanted to get the whole explanation over with as quickly as possible. "And they talked for a short time, but then Janssen wanted to see the guns immediately. I mean, McCabe'd only just got them stowed away in a warehouse in East Croyden…"

"Murphy," Doyle ground out through clenched teeth. "What the bloody hell went on?"

"We lost them." Murphy sagged against the same wall Doyle had wanted to throw him against only moments before. "Him and Bodie got into a nice Jaguar—black, latest model, very posh. But that meant we lost audio from the transmitter which was under the table at the pub. I didn't worry—had Anson parked over one street ready to tail him—but we thought he'd only be following Janssen, not the both of them."

"Did they make it to the warehouse?" Doyle asked, sure he knew the answer. Bodie had been snatched. His cover was blown to hell. He was possibly dead already, pitched off the side of some lonely road on the way to East Croyden.

"No." Murphy didn't pretty up his reply.

The single word hovered between them, stark and alone—like Bodie, Doyle thought, and wondered if he'd gone a bit bonkers in the last few moments. This was the embodiment of all his fears—that he'd recover his own health just in time to lose Bodie. He could still feel where Bodie had bitten him on the back of the neck. Doyle rubbed his right shoulder, lingering on the raw bite, welcoming the blossom of pain when he pressed down on the wound.

He was not about to accept that Bodie was gone. Not yet. Not ever. Doyle closed his eyes, picturing the scene at the Swan; could see Bodie so clearly, as if he'd been right beside his partner the entire time.

Janssen must have pushed to go inspect the guns immediately. Bodie would have stalled, using all his charm to propose a later meet when the Squad could arrange for more agents to be eyes and ears. Obviously, Janssen had threatened to pull out—maybe become angry and insistent before Bodie agreed, and they'd both walked over to the car park to the Jaguar Murphy so admired. Then they'd driven away, only to be lost in the snarl of London city traffic.

"Did you get film? A photograph, anything?" Doyle pushed, his brain buzzing with the need to find Bodie. Now.

"Cowley's put a rush on having the film developed, and I was to find you and…" Murphy gestured down the hall. "Take you back to his office." He swallowed, guilt written large over every inch of him. "Doyle, I'm…"

"Don't apologize, damn you!" Doyle swung around, rage enveloping him. Murphy held his ground, but it was a near thing. Doyle could sense Murphy's need to retreat. "Don't you dare tell me you're sorry that he's gone, because he isn't." Doyle smacked his hand once on Murphy's chest. "We will find him. Soon." He turned fast, bounding down the hall to the lift and Cowley's office, not looking back to see if Murphy was following.

Doyle burst into the office without knocking. "What do you know so far?" He planted himself in front of Cowley's desk.

The old man looked up at him, and for one moment, Doyle saw an unexpected glimpse of sympathy before Cowley pursed his lips and took off his thick-lensed specs. "Anson reported that he had lost the vehicle two hours ago—a large lorry cut him off and the Jaguar must have turned into a maze of streets. He never caught the tail again." Cowley shook his head. "We've reported the number plates to Scotland Yard, and they are coordinating with us to keep watch for the car."

 _Two hours ago? Why hadn't he been told immediately?_ Doyle knew there had to be more, but he didn't say a word.

Cowley pressed the intercom button to his secretary. "Betty, is the film back yet?"

"Yes, sir." Her voice sounded tinny through the small receiver. "The technician is literally walking in now."

"Good, have him come in and set up the projector," Cowley ordered. "And send out for some food that will fill us up—possibly meat pasties, or steak and kidney pie for two."

"I'll call O'Hara's," Betty promised. The intercom gave a loud click afterward.

"I'm not hungry," Doyle snarled.

"I am," Cowley said crisply. "We'll no doubt be analyzing the film and audio recording for a few hours and I, for one, do not want to rely on the fare in the vending machine downstairs."

A poxy-faced boy knocked and came in, bearing the film canister. "Where's your screen and projec…?" he started.

"I'll do it." Doyle practically had to wrestle the large canister from him, but the boy backed off with a sign from Cowley. Although one part of his brain was amazed at Cowley's support, Doyle didn't have time to dwell on that. The sooner they ascertained where Bodie might be, the sooner this whole thing would be over with.

The physical labour of unfolding the viewing screen and setting it up took out some of Doyle's frustration. At least it felt like he was doing something constructive. He threaded the leader of the film reel through the projector and switched on the machinery. Cowley watched silently, turning out the lights when the film was ready.

Immediately, the exterior of the Swan filled the screen, just as Bodie and Janssen walked out. A casual viewer might see two men chatting amiably, but Doyle could read every line of his partner's body. Bodie was fuming. His fists were jammed in his jacket pockets and his back was ramrod straight, the ex-military training showing through. Bodie gave Janssen a persuasive smile that almost stopped Doyle's heart, but the South Afrikaner shook his head violently. They stood on the kerb, obviously arguing for a few moments longer before climbing into a sleek black motor. The number plate on the back read XIN 449W.

Doyle was very glad of the darkness that hid his fear-infused anger from Cowley.  
Why in the hell had the damned bloody fool gone in the car in the first place? No sense of self-preservation at all.

The film ended as the Jaguar pulled away from the kerb and rolled down the street. Doyle recognized a pale blue Cortina turning right directly behind Janssen's car. Anson on the move. Unfortunately, the van hadn't been able to follow with the camera rolling.

"McCabe stayed at the warehouse, but he never heard from Bodie, nor did Janssen ever show up there." Cowley flicked on his desk lamp, his large glasses reflecting the brightness so that he appeared blind.

"Which means that either that was just a smokescreen all along, to coax Bodie out." Doyle spoke to the film projector so that he didn't have to face his superior. Just then, he hated him.

"Or he doesn't need what Bodie was offering," Cowley concluded.

"Either way, he saw through Bodie. P'haps knew who he was." Doyle mashed the button to rewind the film. He would watch it again until he could lip read every single word Bodie and Janssen said to one another. "Or sussed that he was undercover." Each possibility was chilling to consider.

"Quite probably." Cowley nodded. "There was a driver in the car, a Negro, but we haven't placed him."

"Yeah." Doyle had noticed the chauffeur. Also from South Africa, or someone local whom they could track down?

"I'll have close-ups made of Janssen and his driver," Cowley said. He got up and walked over to the screen as if peering any closer to the grainy, slightly out-of-focus picture of the driver would help at all.

Betty came in with two beef pasties, chips and ginger beer whilst they were watching the film a third time. Cowley signalled a break for their dinner, and the two of them chewed in silence. Doyle would have preferred a real beer, but the first sip of the ginger stuff had a surprising bite. The spicy brew burned down his throat almost like whisky did. He picked at the chips and ate half of his pasty, mulling over the images of Janssen and Bodie getting into the car together. Would that be the last time Doyle ever saw Bodie again?

 _Fuck_.

He took a fast gulp of ginger beer and swallowed wrong, coughing and sputtering. Coming in with the audiotape from the listening devices at the Swan, Murphy helpfully pounded him on the back.

Doyle waved him away, trying to breathe through the rattle in his chest. He hated that feeling of such vulnerability—like that day when he'd lain on the rug in his own flat, drowning in his own blood until Bodie arrived to save him.

_Where was Bodie now?_

And would Doyle be able to save him?

"Stick to whisky, laddie," Cowley said with gruff kindness, pouring him a small portion of the good stuff.

Keeping his head down, Doyle downed the whisky in one gulp. Probably not the right solution after nearly choking from a fizzy drink. The liquor sent flames down his raw throat, obliterating the sweetness of the ginger as well as momentarily removing Doyle's ability to speak.

He didn't have to. Murphy and Cowley were huddled over the old cassette tape recorder, trying to get it to work.

"Piece of junk, that," Murphy said, still avoiding looking Doyle straight in the eyes. He wiggled the power button. "Need to get one of those new ones, with micro technology."

"You have control of the purse strings?" Cowley asked archly. "We've just had all new computers installed in the communications centre. Cost more than you'll see in a single year, mark my words."

"S'truth," Doyle slurred, suddenly overwhelmingly angry. Here they sat, stuffing themselves with food and drink when Bodie…

 _"Mr. Janssen,"_ Bodie's voice sounded different and slightly wrong on the tape player.

Murphy pressed stop and fiddled with the speed and volume for a few seconds before hitting power again.

 _"Mr. Janssen,"_ Bodie said in a more normal tone. _"What can I get for you? Wine? Beer? The owner makes a fine pilsner. I haven't had such a good one since I was in Berlin."_

Doyle stuffed down all his rampant emotions to listen objectively to the conversation and try to glean any pertinent details. He dug his fingernails into his palm to keep from shouting at Bodie.

 _"I don't drink,"_ Janssen said, his South African accent crisp and sharp next to Bodie's scouse. _"Lemon squash, if they have it."_

 _"I'll fetch one from the bar,"_ Bodie said, the last word hard to make out since he'd obviously moved away from the transmitter taped underneath the table. The ambient noise of a busy pub filled the office: clinking glasses, muffled chatter and a loud guffaw of laughter.

"Could you see them from the van, Murphy?" Cowley asked, taking down notes on a pad.

Doyle glanced at what he was written, but it was all squiggles and curlicues. Shorthand, which he had never learned. His mother had considered it somehow feminine and insisted that her three daughters take secretarial courses, all the while pushing her son into maths and sciences. Which he had hated. Young Raymond had spent his time in school drawing cops and robbers in the margins of his papers. Doyle shook his head. He was daydreaming right when he should be on the alert.

"Not much in the way of windows in that pub," Murphy answered.

 _"Here you are!"_ Bodie said loudly. _"Drink up."_

_"I had you checked out, Mr. Phillips."_

Doyle had forgotten that Bodie was using two of his Christian names as an alias. Andrew Phillips. Lucky Bodie, having three on his birth certificate to Doyle's solitary Raymond.

 _"Yeah?"_ Bodie drawled. _"You must have liked what you heard or you wouldn't have come back."_

 _"Your sources were reliable—we know some of the same people."_ There was a pause and the sound of ice cubes clinking against glass. _"Cusack said you can be trusted."_

 _"Shall we while away the afternoon reliving old stories of tramps through the jungles of the Congo and Angola?"_ Bodie suggested.

Doyle could just see him, grinning fecklessly over his pilsner, those bright blue eyes full of mischief, hiding whatever thoughts he had for a man who made his living supplying guns to militias for hire.

 _"I'd prefer to discuss business_ ," Janssen said, obviously unimpressed by Bodie's skills as a host. _"You say you can get me 30 members of the Kalashnikov family, and some fireworks for a… match between two rival teams?"_ He used code for his shopping list, Russian guns and possibly rocket launchers, if Doyle had to guess. _"Everything necessary for a really good bonfire."_

 _"Whatever you require,"_ Bodie agreed. " _I have a warehouse full of…useful items. I simply need to see the cash. This is no post office, no credit or money orders accepted."_

 _"I'm weighing offers,"_ Janssen said. _"What can you provide that the others cannot?"_

 _"How do I know until you tell me what they offered?"_ Bodie hedged.

_"Untraceable, on demand and no interferences from customs."_

Daniels must be using his father's influence to cut through all the red tape and smuggle the guns out of the country, Doyle surmised.

 _"Customs is no trouble at all,"_ Bodie assured. _"We're a legitimate import and export firm, specializing in marmalades and teas. Loose tea mixed in with metal items reduces the smell. Trained dogs can't sniff out the gun powder."_

"That was my idea," Murphy said proudly. "We had a surplus of tea things after that raid on the shop selling drugs out the back last month."

"Very good." Cowley nodded, frowning slightly as he listened.

 _"You have large enough quantities immediately available?"_ Janssen asked.

In the background, a woman giggled loudly and a glass broke. There were several seconds of chaotic noise before the three men in Cowley's office could hear what was being said again.

 _"-- my warehouse, I told you_ ," Bodie said. _"Give me your list and I'll have it filled by morning. All ready to ship out."_

 _"I'd like to see your facilities today,"_ Janssen insisted.

Just as Doyle had suspected. He bit down hard on the pasty crust. It had gone cold but it felt good to crush something under his teeth.

 _"I have my usual customers coming in to buy tea and jams,"_ Bodie said smoothly. _"Tours of the specialty items are by appointment only."_

 _"I'm making an appointment. Now."_ Janssen's tone was soft but his meaning quite clear. Either now or not at all.

Bodie inhaled and cleared his throat. _"Well, you'll have to wait while I have the merchandise crated. It would take a while—far easier for you to just come by in the morning."_

 _"Mr. Phillips, my client is in a rush. He'd like his merchandise as quickly as possible, by today."_ Janssen pushed hard, brooking no argument. _"If I am unable to tour your facilities, then our business is concluded."_

 _"Ah, my friend, let's not be hasty…"_ Bodie must have stood, his voice was suddenly much fainter. _"I'll need to ring up my clerk, have him start selecting the merchandise for your perusal."_

 _"No need to use the phone when I have a car waiting outside,"_ Janssen said. _"Come, I insist. If you have a motor parked nearby, my man can drive you back to fetch it later."_

Bodie was no fool, although Doyle wished to God that he'd found a way to back out of the deal. Doyle realized he was leaning forward as if he could hear the conversation better the closer he was to the tape recorder. Cowley glanced up at him, his expression inscrutable.

 _"How can I refuse an offer like that one?"_ Bodie asked dryly, and that was the last thing said on tape.

Cowley rewound the recording and they listened again, although Doyle had it off by heart the first time, and the old man had taken notes. Then they watched the film one more time.

"Krivas," Doyle said with loathing. "He's the key here. You thought that since Bodie had been in that life, he'd be accepted. But somehow, Janssen's found out that he's with CI-5."

"Complete conjecture," Cowley said quietly, folding his hands. "Krivas is in maximum security prison. All his calls are screened and his mail censored. I very much doubt he has any communication with his mates in South Africa. We've rounded up most of his confederates."

"Fuck!" Doyle jumped up, suddenly far too restless and angry to stay in the office a moment longer. "Get me the clearance to go up to up to Wakefield and interrogate Krivas and Westen."

"No," Cowley said with full authority. "Murphy will go. You have other work, and you're far too emotionally involved here."

"Yes, sir!" Murphy bobbed up like jack in the box. "I'll start the paperwork." He fled the office before Cowley could call him back.

Doyle was about to make his escape when Cowley cleared his throat. Such a small sound, but one filled with meaning. He was again surprised at Cowley's compassion and hated him for it, all the same. Because he didn't want sympathy, he wanted action.

"I know you're worried about Bodie." Cowley got up and poured a second round of whisky. Unheard of, and proved how concerned Cowley was, too. "Getting him back is of utmost importance, but there will be no going off cack-handed until we have irrefutable proof of where Bodie is." He placed the small glass in front of Doyle, waiting until he drank it down.

 _He's getting me drunk,_ Doyle thought as the whisky hit his stomach. He hadn't eaten much of the pasty, in fact, he'd ingested very little except alcohol all day. His head pounded with tension and pent up fear.

"Where did you go this morning?"

Picking up what was left of dinner, Doyle toyed out a piece of beef, and ate it without enthusiasm. "How'd you know I went anywhere?"

Cowley just looked at him without speaking. He had his finger on the pulse of all his agents. Too fucking bad he hadn't kept Bodie under better surveillance.

"Met with Daniels, didn't I?" Doyle answered eventually, feeling manipulated.

"And?"

"Just establishing rapport, nothing to report, sir." He stood belligerently. "May I go now, sir?"

Cowley nodded his assent. Doyle got as far as the door before he spoke again. "Doyle, I am not the enemy."

 _Sometimes, it's hard to tell._ "I am aware of that." He glanced back at his superior, missing Bodie acutely. At times like these, Bodie was their go between, spreading the banter and black humour like butter on bread. "Is that all?"

"Keep me informed," Cowley said carefully.

Doyle heard the unsaid message plain as day— _do what you can to find Bodie, with my blessing, but not CI-5's._ He was more or less on his own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wind hit his face like a physical beating, but Doyle paid it no heed, zooming down the carriageway far over the posted speed limit. He let the motorbike out full, zipping around slower cars and overtaking lumbering lorries with ease. The roar of the engine, the sheer velocity suited his mood, and blew a kind of calm into his brain. He had to trace Bodie's steps, find where he was and get him back. That meant going to the last place he had been.

It was near closing. A few stragglers left the Swan, calling out good nights to the proprietor. Doyle had no patience for small talk. He killed the speed on the motorbike, bringing it in behind the pub with a spray of gravel.

"There's a noise ordinance here," the owner said with disapproval, taking in the riding leathers and Doyle's disheveled hair.

"Just want a pint, no aggro." Doyle slung his helmet over the handlebars of the bike, standing akimbo, waiting for an answer. If he was refused, he'd have to push inside anyway. He'd try to be civil first.

"Already called ten minutes," he countered, but stepped back to let Doyle in as if sensing he'd get grief otherwise.

"I'll drink fast." Doyle glanced around the dim room, freezing out all memories of being there with Bodie. Of laughing and splashing beer on the table they'd chosen for the location of Bodie's meet with Janssen. It was on the far side of the room. There were only two other customers, both leaning on the bar rail, finishing up hard ciders, by the look of their glasses.

"What'll you have?" the pub man went behind the bar and took down a glass.

"Heineken," Doyle ordered for pure perversity's sake, since the Swan advertised Guinness.

"Fifty P." He drew up the beer and passed it over.

Dropping three twenty pence coins on the bar, Doyle carried his drink over to the table. Moving so far away would just give the owner one more reason to think Doyle was dangerous and antisocial. He took a long swallow of beer, staring down the last two patrons as they left. When the pub owner was occupied with closing up the till, Doyle stuck his hand under the table. It was the work of a moment to locate the bug, pull it free and walk out of the Swan. He briefly considered smashing the thing into the pavement, but Cowley would probably just reduce his wages for destroying CI-5 property.

Climbing back on his bike, Doyle rode slowly down Fulham to the intersection. He'd read Anson's report before leaving headquarters. Anson had followed the Jaguar for nearly half a kilometre before losing the tail—a long way from the pub, with dozens of side streets for a long black car to get lost in. And too many places to search for a missing partner. One thing was certain, the Jaguar had almost immediately gone the wrong direction to get to the warehouse in East Croyden.

Bodie had walked into a trap from the very start. Janssen had never intended to drive to the warehouse. Where had CI-5's intel gone wrong? Why hadn't they picked up that Janssen was onto Bodie?

Discouraged and vaguely hung over after an entire day downing alcohol, Doyle turned the bike around and headed for his flat. As much as he wanted to go looking straight away, there was nothing he could do in the middle of the night, with no leads.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Metropolitan police found a Jaguar with the number plate XIN 449W abandoned in a commuter car park just outside Windsor," Cowley said gravely, his hands pressed together as if he was praying, the tips of his fingers just touching his lower lip.

This was to be expected, and Doyle didn't let it faze him. What was more worrisome was that Bodie had now been missing for over 21 hours, and they had very little to go on. He didn't expect a ransom phone call or anything so ordinary, but some clue—some proof that Bodie was still among the living would be encouraging.

"Did you hear me?" Cowley asked.

"Yes, yes." Doyle pulled himself from his morbid thoughts. "Any dabs found in the car?"

"Not Janssen's—or Bodie's." Cowley frowned. "The vehicle had obviously been wiped clean." He held up a finger. "And before you ask. No blood, either."

Something that had been clenched in his belly loosened fractionally. Leaning against the credenza, Doyle nodded. "A professional, then, with the intent to throw us off the scent."

"A strong supposition." Cowley regarded Doyle for a long moment, taking in his riding leathers and striped t-shirt. "Charming ensemble, 4.5, for the second day in a row. Are you anticipating a gathering of Harley Davidson enthusiasts?"

"I wasn't aware you knew about cycle conventions, sir." On any other day, Doyle would have been very amused. As it was, he grinned as broadly as he could because, truth be told, picturing Cowley on a Harley would have sent Bodie into gales of laughter. "Going to meet an informant later—have to dress the part." He didn't know why he didn't admit that he was meeting Daniels. Going in without back-up or at least another agent keeping tabs on his was totally against policy and very, very dangerous.

_Sod CI-5 regulations._

"You'd be surprised at the scope of my knowledge." Cowley raised an eyebrow. "I expect to be informed about all auxiliary inquiries."

_Caught by a professional._

"I am continuing my surveillance of Edward Daniels," Doyle admitted finally. "Nothing at all dangerous or taxing to my recovery." He stood, anxious to get out of the room before Cowley probed any deeper.

"You have specific suspicions about Daniels beyond the original meeting with Janssen?"  
Favoring his gammy leg, Cowley climbed awkwardly out of his chair, but didn't bar the door. He crossed his arms, waiting for more answers. "There are no reports on my desk to that end."

"No—I…" Doyle closed his hand around the doorknob. "I intended to write out the details yesterday, but I spent the evening watching Bodie drive off in a car worth eighteen thousand quid."

"Noted." Cowley gestured at the door. "Keep me informed, 4.5. And wear something acceptable the next time you come through these portals."

"Plus fours and a Windsor tie, sir, tomorrow." Doyle gave a sardonic bow. "I will be at the Highwayman pub, and then I'll be chasing up some of Daniels' former associates."

"Take your R/T."

"Ruins the line of my jacket, sir." Doyle escaped with his teeth clenched so tightly that his ears ached.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lunchtime was in full swing by the time he made it to the pub. The car park was crowded with cars, but Doyle had taken down the number plates the last time, run them through the license registry, and knew which one was Eddy Daniels'. He owned a gorgeous Maserati that stood out amongst the British-made cars like a peacock in a chicken yard. The lad certainly didn't shy away from conspicuous spending.

Doyle nosed the motorbike in close to the silver toned race car and walked slowly past as if admiring the vehicle. If he pried open the boot, what would he find inside? Guns? Drugs? Or something more nefarious, like Bodie's body?

He was resorting to flights of fancy, and that wasn't good when he needed to keep focused on his partner.

_Damn, Bodie! Where the hell are you?_

For all Bodie's poor excuse for humour and his irreverent ways, he was a brilliant investigator, and the only person who'd ever been able to cope with Doyle for more than a few months. They suited one another. More than that, they complimented each other, and Doyle feared that he was lose himself to his own pessimistic, mercurial ways soon enough without his partner as a barometer for his moods.

Daniels was holding court at the same table. Doyle positioned himself at the bar and got a ploughman's lunch and a pint. He leaned against the rail, eating the cheese, egg and bread without tasting a mouthful, watching his prey in the same Martini and Rossi mirror. Daniels and Thomson were deep in conversation, mostly ignoring Mosby, who pouted.

Not exactly sure whether he wanted to get their attention so early in the courtship, Doyle held his ground and drank beer. A bully boy elbowed up to the bar and demanded bitters in a loud, belligerent tone, blowing cigarette smoke in Doyle's face.

"Here you go, Vic." Bern, the bartender, the same bloke Doyle had seen the day before, shoved a beer down the counter.

"Took you long enough!" Vic groused, grabbing the glass. He took a swig and puffed on his cig, tapping ashes on the bar.

Coughing, Doyle turned sideways, keeping Daniels and company in sight without having to inhale the smoke cloud.

"Wot's your problem, berk?" Vic challenged, smacking Doyle on the arm for good measure.

"Just keeping to myself," Doyle answered over his shoulder, placing his empty mug on the counter.

"Well, I don't like the way yer doin' it!" Vic said hotly.

Pulling a draught for another customer, Bern eyed them warily, obviously torn between staying out of it and wading into the fray.

Doyle turned casually, putting one hand on the bar rail, right on top of Vic's hand. Grasping his opponent's pinkie, Doyle pulled back, all the while maintaining a deceptively calm exterior. "I'd like a bit of quiet," he said.

"Oy!" Vic's round, florid face went beet red, and he tried to jerk away.

Doyle jammed the base of his palm into Vic's wrist, flexing it backward in a most unnatural way. "You'd do well to vacate the premises, my lad," he said in a soft, seductive voice, putting a little more pressure on the digit.

"You'll break me hand!" Vic whinged, shoving at Doyle's arm.

All around them, the Highwayman patrons went quiet as if waiting for the next act in a play. Not one made a move to stop the drama.

"You ain't got no authority here!" he said petulantly.

"But I do," Eddy Daniels said in the same quiet tone Doyle had used. "I believe you have ears, and heard what the man said, Vic. You've been told on more than one occasion to find another pub. Shove off."

As if on cue, every man and woman in the pub ducked over their drinks, nervous chatter suddenly overly loud.

"He's bleedin' insane, 'e is!" Vic complained when Doyle let go and stepped back. "Didn't do nuffing' to 'im."

"Filthy habit." Doyle picked up the man's forgotten fag and dropped it into his beer. "Not at all good for your health."

"Bye, Vic!" Daniels smiled nastily, waggling his fingers under Vic's nose. "Go make friends with a sheep."

Thomson and Mosby guffawed at their boss' witticism, banging on the table in their merriment. Vic slunk out, muttering insults.

"You're a cool customer." Daniels gave Doyle a slow once over, lingering on his groin.

For the first time in his life, Doyle knew exactly how it felt to be undressed with just a look. He didn't like it at all. He used the irritation to overcome his satisfaction at getting Daniels' attention so easily. Maybe it was the tight jeans with the patch on the arse framed by the riding leathers after all. "I do all right." He banged his empty mug on the bar. "Another one, mate?" Doyle called to Bern who jumped to do his bidding as if he'd been goosed.

"You do more than all right," Daniels said smoothly. The heat of his gaze could have burned a hole right below Doyle's fly. "Bern, it's on my tab," he said to the bartender.

_Daniels really did have these folks under his thumb._

"Ta." Doyle raised the glass and drank deeply to show his appreciation.

"I saw you in here yesterday." Daniels crossed his arms over his chest. He wore a short sleeved t-shirt that showed off a long snake twining down his arm from bicep to wrist. The serpent's red eyes seemed to glow malevolently. "Where're you from?"

"Here and there." Doyle shrugged, leaning back against the bar in a relaxed pose that Bodie would have said showed off his assets. "Mostly there. Worked up north for a bit until the situation got too hot, thought I'd move south for a more congenial atmosphere."

"Heard you tell Thomson you were looking for work," Daniels continued. "What kind of work you plan on doing?"

Doyle flicked a glance at the other members of Daniels' gang. Thomson looked back at him just as hard and Mosby smirked. "Whatever will bring in the guineas. I've done a bit of pen work, but I'm not too particular," he said, raising his chin to look blatantly into Daniels' eyes. He got a flicker of irritation from the man for the aggressive move, but also the impression that Daniels more than approved when he didn't back down.

"I'd say you had your standards." Daniels inclined his head at the door.

"Don't like smoke in me face," Doyle said flatly, trying to get a bead on Edward Daniels. For a man who'd gone to the best schools, he spoke with a common accent and only a bare hint of the elongated vowels of the upper crust. He affected the look of a street tough, but obviously moved between the two worlds effortlessly, judging by the car. In the photograph of Daniels talking to Janssen that Doyle and Bodie had seen in Cowley's office, the younger man had been dressed in country Lord of the manor style; a quilted jacket, dark slacks and neat shirt with braces. Very different than the Doc Martins, jeans and tee-shirt of today.

"What's your name?" Daniels asked.

"Ray Doyle." He didn't offer a hand, just stood quietly, all thoughts of Bodie banished to the farthest corner of his brain. Nothing to distract him.

"Edward Daniels." The dark haired man had a nasty grin that never lit up his deep brown eyes. "I might have a job for a git like you."

"Flattery won't pay the bills, Daniels," Doyle growled, picking up his beer. He'd gotten the offer even faster than he'd anticipated. "Where and when? Need something off the back of a lorry?"

"You're fast out of the blocks, I'll give you that," Daniels said. "Come back tomorrow, I have to talk it over with my cabinet."

"Member of Parliament, are you?" Doyle scoffed.

"As a matter of fact." Daniels grinned again, but didn't say more. "Meet me 'round the corner, on Ludlow Close, first floor, flat C. Half past one tomorrow."

"And if I don't?" Doyle pretended to be more interested in placing the beer mug precisely where it had been before, right over the wet circle left by the bottom of the glass.

"You'll miss out." Daniels leaned in far too close and purred into his ear. He tapped a long, slender finger on the vulnerable artery pulsing in Doyle's neck. "And I get the feeling that you never want that, Ray Doyle."

_No, he did not._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The encounter at the pub left Doyle surprisingly rattled. He felt dirty, as if Daniels had put his hand down Doyle's trousers and given his cockles a twist. His original assessment that Daniels was a manipulator of the first watch had been confirmed, as well as the assumption that the man had a predilection for men.

While Doyle had nothing against that—far from it, Daniels was very probably what was politely termed a 'deviant', if not an outright sadist.

He suspected he would have the answer to that theory soon enough, right after he talked to Rodney Lebeouff.

The Lebeouff family lived on the end terrace in a well-to-do row of white houses on Bleecher Close. This went hand in hand with young Rod's comment that he was going off to Oxford. The family had money.

When Doyle knocked, the door was opened by a pale faced serving girl with protruding front teeth. "Yeth?" she lisped, wiping wet hands on a dish towel.

"Is Rod Lebeouff at home?" Doyle gave her what he hoped was a friendly smile. He could be charming when he wanted to, unfortunately, this wasn't the time. But he did try.

"Who's asking?" She glanced at him suspiciously, frowning at his leather jacket before glancing at the motorcycle parked at the kerb. Apparently, his charm rating was low.

He didn't want to show his identification unless absolutely necessary, to avoid any chance of Edward Daniels finding out who he worked for. "Name's Ray Doyle. Rod may not know me, but…" He thought frantically for some way to connect them. "I'm on the dormitory committee at Oxford. We need to know exactly which college he'll be in to assign him a compatible roommate."

She nodded slightly, mollified. "I don't fink 'e's taking vis-itors t'day." She started to nudge the door closed but Doyle stuck his foot over the jam. "'E's been taken ill."

"Wait, Miss—I didn't catch your name?"

"Sal."

"Pretty Miss Sal."

That made her blush and grin in embarrassment with a hand over her mouth to hide the overbite.

"I only need a few minutes of Rod's time," Doyle continued, talking fast and soft, melting her like butter. "Just his general interests, if he already has any friends at Oxford, that sort of thing."

"Well…" She hesitated and Doyle took the opportunity to push his way into the foyer.

"His room up the stairs?" He started up the elegant staircase as if he knew exactly which room and was only checking out of politeness.

"Second on the left." Sal pointed, sucking on her top teeth. "Ain't no one else at 'ome until after the mister returns from the bank."

 _Which was all for the best_. The kind of questions Doyle planned to ask Rod weren't exactly what the lad would want his parents to know about anyway.

The upstairs landing was carpeted with thick creamy pile. Doyle stood for a moment to take stock, glancing around at the four doors. Three were closed. Rod's bedroom door was ajar, the soft sounds of John Denver coming from a record player.

Doyle shook his head. What had brought Daniels and Rod together? They seemed as opposite as…himself and Bodie. He knocked and let the momentum of his fist push the door all the way open. "Rod?"

"Who are y…?" Rod bolted up from his bed, a heavy book hitting the floor with a thud.

Daniels and his men had really worked the boy over. Only the day before, Rod had sported a single blackened right eye. Now he was a mass of bruises. The right eye was swollen shut, his bottom lip puffed out twice its original size, and the way he moved proved that there was damage covered by his long sleeved shirt and trousers.

"Get out!" Rod shouted.

Doyle held up both hands, not moving. "I need to talk to you about Edward Daniels."

"Who are you?" Rod repeated. He stood with his back against the wall, as if he'd like to retreat even further, if only he could get away.

The Oxford story wasn't going to work. "I work for CI-5," Doyle said softly, reaching into his back pocket to get his identification. "It's imperative that I learn all I can about Edward Daniels."

Rod snatched the ID out of his hand and examined it carefully. "Raymond Doyle." He glanced up, peering through the single bloodshot eye. "I saw you yesterday, at the Highwayman."

"You have a good memory." Doyle took the wallet back and tucked it into his jacket. "I'm hoping that can aid in my investigation."

"You're barking up the wrong tree here." Rod brushed his longish fair hair off his forehead, revealing another mottled black and blue mark. The marks of the beating marred a face that would have been extraordinarily handsome if not for his bent nose. "I…have nothing to say."

"Did you report the beating to the police?"

If it was possible, he blanched even whiter than he already was. Rod shook his head, fear pouring off of him in waves. "I'm leaving for Oxford. Not coming back here. My parents…" He swallowed and fumbled on the bedside table for a bottle of paracetamol.  
Shaking out two tablets, he downed them with a glass of water, coughing.

Doyle waited patiently, examining the room. By the look of things, Rod Lebeouff was going to college for some kind of literature degree. There were three floor to ceiling bookcases crammed with all sorts of books from well-used paperback novels to thick leather bound tomes. The record player was on the desk next to a typewriter, and the John Denver album came to an end, the needle lifting up automatically and setting back down at the beginning again. _Country Roads_ started up with a delicate guitar riff.

"My parents won't understand…" Rod started, talking over John Denver's gentle ode to his homeland. "They thought he came from a good family. I can't…"

Doyle sat down on the bed next to Rod, feeling impossibly older. When he'd been just twenty-one, he'd been set upon by a group of hooligans who'd beaten him so badly he'd landed in hospital with no memory of the encounter and a crushed cheekbone.

"Did Daniels do this to you?"

"No, no…" Rod pulled his pillow around in front of his belly like a shield. He took a deep breath and winced, favoring his right ribs. "You have to keep this…confidential, don't you?"

"I can bring you down to headquarters, if you want to make your statement completely official," Doyle said, keeping his distance. He didn't want to push and risk losing Rod's confidence.

"I can't do that, no." Rod closed his eyes. His face looked like a ghastly mask, something out of a horror film. "Eddy doesn't do the…discipline, unless…" He clipped off whatever he was going to say, sucking on his injured bottom lip. "It's…Thomson h-hurt me. Eddy just watches most of the time."

"The discipline?" Doyle asked without inflection.

"If you…don't go along with what Eddy wants, then…" Rod shrugged, fighting tears. "I just wanted to…you understand? Have a bit of a lark. My brothers all did sport. Cricket, football, they wrestled, got drunk and stayed out late at parties."

"And you just wanted to read."

"I met Eddy at his father's house in Kensington. He was…" Rod clenched the pillow, almost ripping the fine cotton. "Dangerous. He'd been sent down from school."

 _And a lot more than that,_ Doyle thought privately. "When did you meet him?"

"Autumn, last year, but I've been on the continent, studying in Spain, so I only really spent time with him this winter." He swallowed painfully, wincing.

"And?"

"Eddy was involved in more than just…the sort of scrapes my brothers went in for," Rod said miserably. "He's a thief. And he's…" He started to cry in earnest finally, great wrenching sobs that must have hurt his bruised ribs.

"Hey, then," Doyle soothed ineffectually, casting about for some tissues. He located a box under the complete works of Shakespeare. "Wipe your nose," he said when Rod was down to hiccupping sobs. He never felt quite adequate to this sort of coddling the witness. Crying men always unnerved him even more than seeing a woman cry.

"Eddy is cruel," Rod said softly. "And he's immersed in all these illegal deals. He's been selling guns."

"You know this for certain?"

"Yes. He's right proud of it! He wants to be an international figure, selling guns and weapons…I couldn't condone that sort of thing."

He lapsed into silence just as John Denver warbled, _"I'll love you more than anybody can…"_

"You objected, and he had you beaten?" Doyle couldn't get Bodie out of his mind. There was no specific reason to think that Daniels had him, except for the tenuous connection between Daniels and Janssen. And yet every single thing Rod said just convinced Doyle that Daniels had something to do with Bodie's disappearance.

"When I left the pub, I thought—well, that went all right, really," Rod said, barely above a whisper.

John Denver sang, _"I'll be there when you're feeling down…"_

Doyle had a very sudden, intrusive memory of Bodie bending over him, touching him so very gently, his face dreadful and full of anguish. He shook his head to clear away the image, his heart contracting with sorrow.

_Damn you, Bodie, for making me love you._

"And?" Doyle asked shakily, realizing that neither of them had spoken in several minutes. The next song had already started on the album.

"That evening, my parents went to the theatre and I took a walk down to the shop to get a Coca-cola." His lips quivered and he stopped again, punching the pillow, over and over. Doyle captured his fist, holding it gently in one hand, willing him to keep on talking. "Thomson was there, along with Harrington, and Eddy just stood there and…laughed. He said nobody got away that easily. This was a lesson to me… that I couldn't ever speak…"

"But you know you have to," Doyle said urgently. "You know it's imperative to get the likes of Edward Daniels off the streets and in prison where he belongs."

"My father wants me to be a barrister, isn't that a lark?" Rod said bitterly. "I'm planning to study the origins of novel writing. That's why I was in Spain, to trace the beginnings of Don Quixote."

"A fine story—tilting at windmills," Doyle murmured, wondering if that was exactly what he was doing. "But getting back to selling guns. Do you know specifics?"

"He worked with his father, but Eddy wants to strike out on his own, get his own clients." Rod licked his bottom lip and a bright drop of blood glistened where a cut broke open.

Doyle filed away the new information with a straight face, but his heart was racing. Lord Burley was involved? "Did you meet any of Daniels' clients? See where the guns were kept?"

"No." Rod drew out the 'O' in a moan. "I really tried to stay far away from that side of things. I really just wanted to experiment…" He ducked his head. "I'm not a poof now, am I?"

"We all experiment," Doyle forced himself to say. Where the line between tentative schoolboy crushes and a long term, homosexual relationship fell, he wasn't sure, but he'd crossed it along time ago. Probably the first time he ever looked at William Bodie. "And nobody can pin a label on you unless you allow them to." He handed Rod two more tissues. "I need specific information on Daniels to prosecute. Were you privy to the names of any of his clients? Anyone new, in particular."

"I don't know his name, no," Rod whispered, mopping at his bloody lip with a tissue. "But there was a bloke, not British. Rod had to meet him, to set up the purchase."

"And did the weapons change hands? Are you certain Lord Burley was involved?"

"I don't know," Rod said miserably. "Except, last night—Eddy was really angry, and it wasn't just about me. He was yelling at Harrington, something about a cock-up, that everything was all changed now."

 _Bodie?_ Doyle thought hopefully. Maybe Bodie was the one who'd caused them to alter their original plans? "Did you hear names? Specific places?"

"I was lying on the pavement, bleeding by then." He shook his head. "I never paid much attention to Eddy's schemes. I really just want to…get away from the whole thing completely. Go to school and forget about Eddy bloody Daniels."

"Can you?" Doyle stood, anxious to give Cowley the new information. He paused, not sure how to ask the next question delicately. But it had to be asked. "Did you have sex with him?"

Rod hunched over his pillow in what had to be an incredibly painful position for someone as bruised as he was. He nodded mutely.

"Then I think you should talk to someone. Someone who knows about rape."

Rod raised his head in shock. "Men can't get raped."

"Oh, yes, they can." Doyle swallowed tightly. He'd never really been sure, especially not so many years later. He'd only ever recalled the briefest of images from the attack when he was twenty-one, with the occasional nightmares to keep the adrenaline pumping. But he couldn't discount the wounds he'd been treated for. The bruises and the damage on his face, the chipped tooth, were what he was used to—he'd been beaten before and many times since. What he'd never told a soul was that he woke up in the hospital bed with rectal bleeding. The pain from the surgery on his cheek had been nothing next to the burning _'down there,_ ' and he'd tried to blot out the memory ever since. "You may think that because you…" He searched for the right words. "Willingly went along with Eddy at first that it's your own fault."

"It is."

"It isn't. Did you ever tell him no?"

"After the first time…I wanted to leave, immediately, but he said I couldn't." Rod shuddered and sucked in air. "That we were linked and I had to…commit."

"Commit?"

"Eddy says that we have to wear his mark." He swirled one finger down his arm from shoulder to forearm.

"A tattoo?" Doyle pressed. He needed to know how far he had to go to get under Daniels' skin. With Lebeouff now out of the picture, there was a hole in Daniel's circle just the right size for Raymond Doyle. A tattoo was little enough compensation for Bodie's life. "Did you?"

"No, my parents would have gone completely mental." Rod glanced up as if the thought of them made them appear. "I shouldn't have talked to you. I shouldn't have told anyone!" he gasped fearfully. "He's already come after me once, he could get to me…"

"Rod, I can make sure you have protection." Doyle had to fight the urge to shake the boy but he didn't want to make things worse. "But you'll have to promise me one thing."

"My parents can't find out about this!" He panted between words, beginning to hyperventilate.

"Rod, slow down. I don't have to talk to your mum and dad. Just you." Doyle looked around the room. John Denver was crooning about the Rocky Mountains, and he was tempted to switch the infernal thing off. "I'll call CI-5, have them put a very discreet guard on you until you're safe in Oxford. A Mr. George Cowley will contact you to get a formal statement. You'll be safe."

"I'm afraid he's going to go too far one day…" Rod trailed off, gulping air, but far more slowly. "As long as my parents don't know, I'll try to help."

By the time Doyle had arranged everything Cowley, Rod was dozing. Looking down at the handsome face so horribly marred, Doyle felt a strange detachment. Had he questioned him for the good of the investigation or for his own motives? Getting Bodie back had gone way past rescuing a partner and had become an overpowering need to be with him again, damn the cost.

Just about to lift the needle off the record, Doyle paused, listening to Denver's lyrics:  
 _Let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms._

Just saying Bodie aloud brought such despair, but he had to say the name, just once, into the void, on the off chance that Bodie could hear him from afar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Good work, 4.5," Cowley said gruffly when Doyle slouched into the chair across from his desk.

"Yeah?" Doyle shoved his hands into his jacket pocket and closed his fingers around a small object he'd completely forgotten about until just then. The whole encounter with Rod had dredged up old emotions he'd rather had left buried, and stirred his feelings for Bodie into a quagmire of anxiety and dread.

"We'll begin investigating Lord Burley immediately —obviously very hush-hush until the allegations can be verified. But discovering that there is a connection is of vast importance." Cowley nodded, reading over some of the paperwork in front of him. "I think this may clear the books on several gun smuggling operations if we can tie Lord Burley in. He's probably been hiding behind shadow corporations and henchmen for years, but his son got too greedy."

"My take is that Daniels the younger is a psychopath," Doyle said sourly. "He wants everyone in his circle under his thumb—the boy Lebeouff was bloody frightened."

"He'll be treated with kid gloves, don't you worry about that." Cowley took off his glasses to polish the lenses. "His father is the Chairman of British World Bank. I would not risk having my chequing account closed out over this."

"Here." Doyle deposited the small bug he held in his fist onto Cowley's desk. "This was forgotten at the Swan in all the melee."

"Ah." Cowley raised his eyebrows. "I'll have Betty return it to research and development. Have you finished your report on Daniels? You can carry on with the background on his father—and of Janssen."

"Uh, no." Doyle got up quickly. "I have some more leads to follow up with. And tomorrow, a sit down with Daniels himself. Just informal, he won't know that he's been interviewed."

In fact, it would be the other way 'round. Doyle was the one being interviewed for a place in Daniels' band of merry men. He still resisted telling Cowley of his foray into Daniels' world because he wasn't about to be warned off the obbo. "I'm pursuing a line in inquiries which so far have not born fruit, but I'm persisting for another day."

"Then continue, but…"

"I know, keep you informed." Doyle touched his forelock like a vassal bidding adieu to his feudal lord.

"Oh, 4.5," Cowley said after a moment. "The men in the lab were able to collect some soil and gravel from the tyres of the Jaguar. They are attempting a new technique to match certain types of dirt to specific areas. An analysis of the chemical composition, apparently."

Privately, Doyle didn't think any good would come of that, and it certainly wouldn't replace good old fashioned chasing down clues. He nodded, already trying to suss out his own next move.

He had nothing planned until the meeting with Daniels and his boys tomorrow. It wouldn't do to seem too eager, or to hang about the Highwayman like a love-sick puppy. He was at loose ends until one pm on Thursday, and he hated not having something to do.

Another round with the micro-film reader? Ferret out Eddy's brother and sister? Probably not a good idea, he didn't want to be seen anywhere near the family.

Slinging a leg over the motorcycle, Doyle buckled on his helmet and let the bike take him out past the claustrophobic maze of London streets into the rolling hills of the countryside. He wasn't really looking at the scenery, just emptying out his brain. Except, Bodie kept muscling his way in, past Doyle's defenses, past all the traps he set to waylay any thoughts of his lover stretched out on a bed, naked and beautiful.

He ate an unremarkable vegetable curry served by an exotic black-eyed beauty who sounded like a Glaswegian, and checked into a scruffy hotel that smelled of old beer and cigarettes. He didn't care, just stripped out of his clothes and fell into the sheets straight away. One dream held him fast all night. The same dream he'd had at least once a week ever since his shooting.

Eerie red and green lights stained the entire scene, transforming he and Bodie into Christmassy ghouls. Doyle always had to strain to hear Bodie's voice. Afraid to miss a salient point, he held his tongue, unable to move. Even asleep, he was aware that there was something so very wrong with the entire conversation—they shouldn't be there, drinking beer together, pretending they'd just met.

 _"You sweat it out and you pour it back,"_ Bodie said mysteriously, producing beers without a tap or barman. _"Bodie."_

Doyle always gave his name, studying his partner for clues; portents of what was to come, what had passed between them. He gulped for breath, his heart pounding, scared and in pain.

 _"That's the main thing, staying cool,"_ Bodie said with assurance. _"It's on my medical report. Slow heartbeat, slow metabolism. Gotta be cool."_ He sounded smug, and a little superior. _"Sneaked a look at yours, though. Very uncool. Hot temperament…"_

Doyle thrashed in the thin sheets, gasping, his chest on fire, and tried to back away from what was right in front of him.

 _"Still, a good man,"_ Bodie continued, oblivious to Doyle's consternation. _"Tops. Worth knowing. You won't fall if they push…_

Doyle ripped himself out of the nightmare, sweat pouring off him in rivulets.

_Bloody hell._

He craved seeing Bodie again—almost enough to hope that he would drop back into the dream again. But there was no way he was falling asleep after that. The whole thing always brought back the agony and terror of the first few days after he was shot when there was only unrelenting pain, and Bodie was his one constant.

He could hear the echoes of the end of the dream, even when awake. Bodie would turn to him, the conflicting green and red changing his familiar face into a garish mask. _"Can't afford to give it down, might make you hesitate. You get the book. You shoot to kill,"_ the chiaroscuro said ominously. _"He will."_

Shaking, Doyle scrambled out of bed, the need to move overwhelming. He pressed his hot cheek against the cold window-pane, shivering. On the horizon, past the low rolling hills in the distance, the sky was lightening. Just a sliver of pale gray against the blackness, but enough to give hope of a new day.

 _"You shoot to kill. He will,"_ repeated endlessly in his brain until he wanted to bash his head in.

He took a shower instead. The water pressure was nil and there wasn't enough of the hot. The rinse off did refresh, and he climbed onto his bike just as the sun rose into a host of pink and golden clouds. Long, long ago, in art class, he'd painted dawn in just those hues, trying to escape the beatings and mindless violence on the streets.

So what crooked path had brought him here to this place, one step above a cop? If every step had brought him to Bodie, then why couldn't he find Bodie now?

He refused to believe that it was too late, even as time passed.

_"That's the main thing, staying cool."_

Sure he could almost hear his partner, feel him warm beside him, Doyle nodded. "Been years, mate, and I still haven't managed to learn the first lesson you taught me."

Morning traffic on the roads leading out of the little village where he'd spent the night was snarled. The narrow lanes lined with hedgerows were built a century ago for horse drawn carriages, not commuters driving their Fiats and gigantic American cars into London for the day. Doyle rode the bike fast, dodging around larger vehicles when he could. Just as often, the untrimmed branches from the bushes on the side of the road smacked the visor of his helmet. One time, he nearly pitched off the motorcycle into the path of an oncoming lorry. Time to slow down.

Doyle pulled off at an intersection, peering up at a sign in amazement. Cuddesdon was the next village over. Posted just below that was another sign for Ripon College, a famous theology school. No wonder the village where Lord Burley kept his ancestral home had sparked a chord.

So close. He'd already decided against approaching Eddy's siblings, but a gander at the family manse wasn't out of the question. And the traffic driving away from London was much lighter. He still had plenty of time to get back in time for his meeting.

Cuddesdon was barely an hour from London—an easy drive. Did Daniels ever bring his victims here? He should have asked Rod exactly where he and Daniels had been together at Christmas time. At the house in Kensington or here?

Taking the turning to the right, he continued into Cuddesdon, passing a stone church set back in an old fashioned cemetery, and down the small high street with its markets and tea shops. He couldn't imagine Eddy Daniels feeling at home here in the gentle English countryside of a century earlier. A quick stop at a bakery for a current scone and directions got him to Burley house without any wrong turns.

None of the family was at home, which was not to say that there was no one on the grounds. The whole place was being restored. Scaffolding enclosed the entire front of the traditional stone manor, with labourers of every sort scurrying everywhere. A plumber was carrying lengths of pipe around to the servant's door, a stonemason was carefully replacing cracked stone on the base of the building, and up near the top, a man was working on a beautiful stained glass window. Gardeners dug up earth, planting spring bulbs. Out of sight, but not out of hearing, someone was using a jack hammer. Sheep out in a pasture to the left apparently disapproved of the ear splitting din and were bleating their discontent.

Relatively sure that he wouldn't be noticed amongst the chaos, Doyle leant his bike against the front gate and wandered down the lane to the main drive. He walked slowly around the entire house. His fantasy of finding Bodie here, unharmed and grateful for the rescue faded with every step. The estate must have encompassed acres of forestland beyond the French-style formal back gardens decorated with rows of poplars and fountains. There were the usual stables, barns and other out-lying buildings that kept an estate running, but was no way to hide any illegal activity here, not with dozens of construction workers swarming the place.

He kicked the ground, producing a cloud of dust. No, where ever Bodie might be, it was not here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The small flat on Ludlow Close was smoky and dim. A lanky boy with flaxen hair and the hard flat eyes of a killer let Doyle in. He didn't frisk Doyle, but it was obvious he wanted to. With a toothy grin, Doyle held open the edges of his jacket to show he wasn't carrying a weapon.

Not a visible one, anyway. He had very small pistol strapped to his ankle, hidden by his left riding boot and a knife shoved down into his right.

"Harrington." Another lad, shorter but with the thick, bulging muscles of a weight lifter, inclined his head and they went out as Doyle came in, closing the door behind them.

Were they standing sentry in the hallway?

"Ray Doyle." Edward Daniels beckoned him into the room with a tight little smile. He was completely dressed in black, both his t-shirt and jeans. Beside him, Mosby was shirtless, the better to show off the long red and black serpent winding around his arm from shoulder to about mid-forearm. The design was slightly smaller and not quite as elaborate as Daniels' own.

Doyle could see the head and thick body of the snake on Daniels' forearm before it disappeared under the edge of his shirt sleeves. The same arm rested on Mosby's thigh, the fingers not quite touching Mosby's groin. A very obvious show of dominance. And a clear message: if you want to work with me, this is how you show loyalty.

Doyle ignored the tension in his belly. Adrenaline buoyed him up, and kept him moving forward at the same time. "You said you had work for me?" He glanced around the room. It was a college student's bedsit, shabby for a Lord's son, but exactly right for the persona Daniels was cultivating.

"I do indeed." Daniels got up leisurely. "I need someone….discrete, to meet with a customer and accompany him to another destination. Someone who will…" He walked very slowly around Doyle, blatantly assessing him. The smell of lust pouring off him was almost overwhelming.

"Be able to take direction and follow orders to the letter," Daniels finished.

"Vague kind of a job, if you ask me," Doyle said, pretending a nonchalance he didn't feel. Daniels' heated gaze grated on him, making him want to cover his bollocks and escape. This was such an unusual reaction that he was almost distracted from the man in front of him.

Doyle couldn't even remember the first time he'd started getting admiring glances—from both women and men. Probably just after he turned fourteen. Daniels, however, left him with creepy-crawlies down his spine. He really didn't want to do what he knew would have to—lay with Edward Daniels to find out more about Bodie—and the case. "I've never done much of the heavy lifting. More of a pen and ink man, myself."

"A forger." Daniels nodded as if filing that away. "The thing is." He paused with a smile that never made it to his deep brown eyes. "As fine as you are, my lad. And you are fine." He cupped his broad hand over Doyle's mound. "Enough that I'd fancy a go with you." He met Doyle's eyes, squeezing just a mite too hard down below. "I don't think you'd follow my orders, would you?"

"Try me." Doyle breathed against the pressure in his genitals for one long moment before he stepped back, breaking the connection. Behind him, Mosby giggled. Doyle had almost forgotten that he was in the room. "You keep that up, mate, I'm gone. What and where do you want me?" He glanced at the nutter on the sofa behind him, wondering where Thomson was. "The rest of it is up for discussion, but I don't go arse up without compensation."

Daniels went rigid and still, as if trying to stare him down. Then suddenly, he grinned. "You drive a hard bargain, my son. I don't know why I should bother." He held up his hands but Doyle heard the unspoken 'convince me' loud and clear.

"You will because you're tempted." Doyle leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "You can't resist a challenge." He made sure his curls brushed Daniels' cheek as he moved back and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, all the better to show off his assets. "And I suspect, as much as you've got others around you who could do almost as well as me, they're known, aren't they? Maybe even wanted by the police, so you can't have 'em prancing around this…what'd you call him?"

"A customer," Mosby supplied, and got a hissed "shut up" from Daniels for his trouble. He went mute immediately like a good little submissive.

"Customer," Doyle repeated. "Which makes me wonder just what are you selling, Eddy Daniels?"

Daniels was growing angry, but he had enough control not to show it, yet.

_How much would it take him to lose that control?_

"Never you mind," he said abruptly, standing too close once again. This time, there was no overt lust, just malevolence. "I've reconsidered. Leave."

"Has to be guns or drugs," Doyle continued, totally in his element. He relaxed, lounging against a low, rickety bookcase with his arms crossed over his chest. "And you've got a legitimate buyer. Merchandise can't be here, place is too small…Thomson out guarding the goods?"

"You know entirely too much," Daniels growled.

"And—like it or not, I'm the best you have to do the job, aren't I?" Doyle said with a dash of smugness thrown in. He wasn't about to leave without the information. "Where and when?"

"Full of yourself, I'll give you that." Daniels sat down next to Mosby again, placing a possessive hand on his thigh. "Which makes me wonder why exactly you want this job so badly."

 _He was probably good at chess._ Doyle suddenly felt like he was one move away from losing to his opponent's checkmate. How the hell had that happened so fast?

"As I told you. Need the money, want to establish myself in London." Doyle took the pressure off, shrugging with regret. "If it's not to be…"

"Ah, I think you may have what it takes, my son," Daniels raised his eyebrow suggestively. "I pay well, and we do indeed have a job waiting… with more besides. Many irons in the fire."

"I'm listening," Doyle said.

Because he was sitting down, Daniels was almost level with Doyle's groin. "But, there's an… audition, you might say."

"What would that be?"

Mosby giggled, snuggling in close to Daniels like a dog with his master.

"Take down your trousers," Daniels said flatly.

Inhaling slowly, Doyle waited a beat. "Why?" Things were moving entirely too fast.

"Need to see what you've got to offer, don't I?" Daniels gestured at his fly, expecting instant obedience.

Doyle had never obeyed on command in his life. He'd arrived here thinking he could manoeuvre Daniels' for his own needs and ended up being manipulated like a novice agent. _Not good._ He unbuttoned the top button of his waistband, shutting down any and all thought. Never looking away from his tormenter's face, Doyle pulled down the zip and peeled off his jeans and underwear, exposing himself. A very effective way to prove he wasn't wearing a wire, although there was no doubt that wasn't Daniels' primary reason for the show. The room was too cool by half and Doyle shivered, wanting to cover himself with both hands. He didn't.

Daniels grinned triumphantly with a nod. "Not bad. Finish it."

His mouth dry, Doyle didn't move. He thought about taking out his knife and castrating the bastard.

"'E means yer shirt," Mosby said, puffing out his bare chest.

"Does he have to be here?" Doyle kept flashing on that last night with Bodie. Feeling Bodie's leather glove against his flushed skin, the flutter of his kisses. Ruthlessly, he pushed the memories aside; they had no place in this den of iniquity.

"He's the chaperone, innit he?" Daniels said.

"I don't strip for an audience." Doyle bent and pulled up his jeans.

"You're a right defiant little cock," Daniels said, standing up to lend a hand in the zipping and tucking in. "And I like what I see. But you're after something, and that makes you dangerous in a way I haven't quite figured out yet."

"Transparent, that's me." Doyle conjured up embittered humour. "Seen me in the flesh, haven't you?"

"Only way I like to play it," Daniels smirked, running a hand over Doyle's mound just as he had at the beginning of the interview. "Tonight at ten past seven exactly, meet an Afrikaner on the corner by Liberty, and take him to Rotherhithe. There'll be people on the street watching, so no funny business."

"On my bike?" Doyle countered.

"Mosby will drive up in a car for you. Once you get in, he'll give you the address," Daniels explained.

"This South African bloke have a name?" he asked, enough excitement building to cancel out the humiliation.

"Better you don't know. That way, if you're nicked by the coppers, you can't spill the beans." Daniels ran a sensual finger down Doyle's throat to his breastbone. "I'd quite like to see you in irons, actually."

 _And I, you, shite,_ Doyle thought.

"Tonight, Regent Street in front of Liberty, at seven ten," he repeated dutifully. "Should I wear a poppy on my lapel so he'll recognize me?"

"Shouldn't bother," Daniels shook his head. "All those curls and those cat green eyes. You're too pretty to miss, ain't that so, Mose?"

"Yeah!"

Doyle looked over Daniels' shoulder into Mosby's pudding face and saw his own fears reflected back at him. What a way to survive, with your bollocks on a leash. No way to back out now when he was certain he was getting closer to the truth about Bodie.

His heart was pounding against the roof of his mouth when he shut the door of the flat behind him. As he'd assumed, Harrington and the weight lifter were standing in the hall. Doyle walked quickly past them to the stairs and out of the building, his brain crowded with too many questions and not enough answers. Where was Thomson? Where was Doyle supposed to take this mystery man tonight? He assumed it was Janssen. So was he going to be there for the weapons buy?

 _And what had happened to Bodie?_ Had Doyle gone haring off in the wrong direction? What if Daniels had nothing whatsoever to do with Bodie's disappearance?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Alpha one." Doyle pressed the button on his R/T. There was no point in keeping mum, he had to tell Cowley at least some of his suspicions before he burned every single bridge behind him.

"Here, 4.5.," Cowley answered after a burst of static and some unintelligible squawks from the electronics.

"Sir, I need to talk, can you be at your club in the next hour?" Doyle looked down at his hand. He was shaking from the after effects of too much adrenaline.

He sensed Cowley weighing the request. "At four o'clock, then," the older man said and clicked off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Doyle didn't have a tie. He could hear Bodie's teasing voice in his head, _"I come prepared for any eventuality, in case we went to tea at the Cow's club."_ But there was no help for it—Cowley would have to set things right and let him into the inner sanctum without the scrap of silk around his neck.

Doyle parked his bike at the kerb and sauntered up to the elegant front door of the venerable establishment as if he had every right in the world to be there with his unshaven chin and casual attire. He had gone to his flat after the ride back from Cuddesdon but the jeans and button down shirt he'd worn to Daniels' flat didn't quite measure up to the Army and Navy Club dress code.

Cowley must have arrived moments before him. He was standing just inside the door with a tie in one hand. "I suspected you would need this." He draped it around Doyle's neck with a critical eye. "At least you have on a jacket, of sorts, today."

Flipping the length of silk hand over hand in the proper Windsor knot, Doyle looked down at himself. The tan suit jacket he'd paired with the white shirt didn't match the burgundy and blue old school tie, but if he didn't care, why should anyone else? He had far more pressing matters to worry about.

"They serve a bracing tea in the main lounge," Cowley said, nodding at the front hall porter with the aplomb of an old member. "As well as a fine brandy or whisky, if you prefer. You look as though you could eat a dozen of the cucumber sandwiches."

"They got any cheese and pickle sarnies?" Doyle asked, just to maintain his incorrigible image. Why did Cowley suddenly feel the need to feed him every time they talked? Although the man was correct, he hadn't eaten anything since the early morning scone.

They had barely settled themselves into comfortable leather wingback chairs when the epitome of a British butler came over with a laden tea tray. There were sandwiches of every kind from traditional cucumber to salmon decorated with caviar on top. Scones dotted with currents nestled against little pots of clotted cream and lemon curd, and there were two slices of Dundee cake for afters. The staff obviously knew Cowley's preferences. A shot glass of amber coloured whisky squatted next to the teapot. It had been years since Doyle had such a quintessentially British spread.

"May I pour, gentlemen?" the butler asked, his tone balanced between deferential and supercilious. He held the Royal Doulton teapot in his white-gloved hands, poised directly over Cowley's cup.

"Thank you, Finch," Cowley said, radiating calm. He selected a sandwich and took a bite, pale blue eyes fixed on Doyle as if assessing his mental status.

Doyle still felt like he was jumping out of his skin. He wasn't usually so affected by the criminal element, but Daniels rubbed him all the wrong ways, and he was going to have to deal very closely with the man for a good while. The first sip of strong but milky tea did more than just assuage his hunger, it helped settle his nerves. He ate two small sandwiches in the time it took for the butler to leave them to their meal.

"I take it you have news?" Cowley asked.

"More like a gut feeling," Doyle said cautiously. He drank more tea to organize his thoughts. Quickly outlining what he'd done since they'd spoken last, he ended with the interview with Daniels and the job for the evening. "I reckon this 'Afrikaner' is Janssen and Daniels has finally collected enough guns to make the exchange."

"Good lord, man!" Cowley hissed. He probably would have exclaimed much louder in his own office, but they were in the hushed atmosphere of the club and he had to keep a civil tongue in his head.

Which is exactly why Doyle had chosen to meet here. He knew he could get away with a great deal more than he might with other agents around.

"Why the hell are you telling me this a mere three hours before the rendezvous?" Cowley downed his beloved whisky in one swift gulp, proving how angry he was. "Little enough time to arrange back up and a contingency plan."

"I'm informing you as soon as humanly possible," Doyle said, covering his annoyance by coating his scone with far too much clotted cream for his own taste. He ate it anyway, a tiny portion of his brain imagining Bodie would have snatched it from him under any other circumstance. The fantasy did more to lift his spirits than the tea and cucumber sandwiches combined. "And unless you have a bug smaller than the last one, there's no way I can wear a wire. Daniels is far too suspicious."

"In what way?" Cowley asked shrewdly.

Wild horses would not have pulled the reason out of him, particularly not in front of Cowley. "He searched me very thoroughly," Doyle hedged, taking the last of the egg and cheese, and leaving the cake for his superior. "I couldn't chance it. Not when there's a possibility of gaining his trust and finding out more about what happened…" He couldn't even say aloud that Bodie might be dead. "Where Bodie is," Doyle amended.

"Why exactly do you think this Daniels is involved?" Cowley leaned forward.

"It's not something I can put my finger on, precisely." Doyle frowned, annoyed in spite of his convictions. Similar to the time when he'd gone after Arthur Pendle when most of CI-5 were concentrating on Brian Forrest, he couldn't explain why he wanted to focus on Daniels, only that it felt right. Of course, he'd ended up beaten to a pulp and nearly killed by Pendle, Forrest and their co-conspirator Crabbe, but that had come out all right in the end. He'd fought back without anyone else's help, although Bodie had shown up to pick up the pieces. _The dumb crud._

"I am concerned that you are hell-bent on this particular angle of investigation without a shred of evidence that this is how or why Bodie is now missing," Cowley said, skepticism rife in his dry, Scottish burr. "Obviously, if this meeting tonight is with Janssen, then we will definitely have a solid connection with strong leads."

"Yeah…"

"But I am still exploring other avenues of inquiry," Cowley went on without letting Doyle speak. "And I want you to go in with an open mind, alert to everything around you. You have a tendency to be biased, and I fear that could…"

"I know what I'm doing 'ere, sir," Doyle retorted, stung.

"I will assign 6.1 and Jax to mingle with the Regent Street crowd and keep an eye out," Cowley said after a moment of thought. "No one will look twice at a woman carrying a shopping bag near Liberty, and Jax can pose as a taxi driver or newsstand attendant."

Doyle liked both of them, and Liz Spalding looked a treat, but he wasn't keen on being hampered by the other two and possibly scaring away Daniels. "As long as they stay far back until after I make contact," he said stiffly.

"They know their jobs, as well, 4.5," Cowley said, his tone a slight reprimand. "I can position agents at the other end, in Rotherhithe, but without a specific address, it's difficult to cover all eventualities. Daniels gave you no idea where you will be going with this South African?"

"None, sir."

"And you learned nothing more about this supposed 'cock-up'?" The slang sounded foreign coming from him, "that young Lebeouff spoke of?"

"There was no way to question Daniels this afternoon without setting off his paranoia," Doyle reported, looking down into the dregs in his cup. If he could read tea leaves, what would they say about his future?

"Then I'd like to know a little more about this country estate. Did you actually ascertain that no one from Lord Burley's family was in residence beyond the construction crew?"

"No, but there was too much noise and far too many people roaming freely around the place to hide any guns or keep prisoners. No privacy whatsoever," Doyle answered. "Were you able to get anything more from Rod Lebeouff? I forgot to ask where he…spent time with Daniels."

"Not one of my questions either. I'll have 6.2 accompany him down to Oxford, to assure his safety, and interrogate him further." Cowley shook his head. "The lad is rightly scared, and is willing to talk, but he doesn't know as much as we'd like. On other fronts, as far as our agents and customs know, Janssen has not left the country or shipped out any suspicious loads, leaving it highly likely that he is the man you'll meet this evening."

"Thank you, sir." Doyle glanced at his watch. Forty-five minutes had passed since he'd arrived, and it had now been more than two days since he'd seen his partner in the flesh.  
There was an ache under his breast-bone that wouldn't go away. "I'd best be going. Thank you for meeting me—"

"I had ulterior motives of my own, Doyle." Cowley beckoned Finch to clear away the leavings of the tea. "I arranged to meet with Lord Burley here at half past five this evening, to discuss the changes in the gun laws he is trying to have voted on in Parliament. He's, as you know, trying to amend our laws to be more like those in the States. I am going to—what's the expression? Pick his brains without letting on that he's under suspicion."

"Sir," Doyle said, a ripple of dread going down his spine. "Has Lord Burley ever seen Bodie? Or me, for that matter?"

"I can't see how." Cowley tapped a finger against his tea cup. "Although, he was amongst a group of politicians who toured CI-5 approximately a year ago."

"Bloody hell," Doyle whispered. "What if he saw Bodie with Janssen and recognized him?"

"Possibly. I'll try to find a way to discretely work something into the conversation," Cowley said grimly. "On that same note, Murphy came back from questioning Krivas at Wakefield. Krivas denies knowing Janssen, but that doesn't preclude the fact that they could have known some of the same people back in the mercenary days." He looked perturbed. "Report back immediately when you find out anything new, 4.5, even if it is late tonight."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Doyle never spotted Liz Spalding in on Regent Street's crowded sidewalks. He did see Daniels' lout Harrington loitering against an elegant gray stone building, his blond hair shining in the lamplight. So, not only was CI-5 keeping him under surveillance, but Daniels' people were, too.

At seven pm on a Thursday evening, Liberty was closed, but many were out and about. The weather was mild for late February, and Londoners were enjoying a rare warm night with dinner at a restaurant or maybe a night at the theatre.

Doyle slouched against a streetlamp in front of the famous cross-timbered store, directly opposite a window displaying brightly printed fabrics: red cotton with a gold and green paisley pattern, an elegant dark blue silk with small curls of purple and gold flowers, and pale yellow challis with tiny rose buds tossed over the cloth like a country field gone to seed. He was there long enough to examine each one, and listen to Jax calling out the headline of the Evening Standard from the corner of Argyll Street, before he saw Janssen crossing the road just as a red double-decker trundled by.

At exactly the same time, almost as if Mosby had been following the arms buyer, a midnight blue American-made Ford Mustang pulled up to the kerb. Leaving the motor running, Mosby stepped out of the car, nodded once at Doyle and walked away.

With his hand on the door handle, Doyle watched Janssen approach, assessing him for signs of alarm or suspicion. There were none. Henrik Janssen wore a Burberry raincoat and a trilby, which Doyle thought a bit too clichéd, and carried an elegant leather briefcase.

"Sir," Doyle said formally, nodding at the man. Janssen's neat mustache twitched but he didn't say anything, just bobbed his head in return. "Edward Daniels sent me." Doyle risked looking over the roof of the Ford at Jax. The other agent was selling a newspaper to Liz Spalding.

"I am in no mood for chit-chat," Janssen said brusquely, his voice exactly the same as it had been on the audio recording from the Swan. "This has already taken far, far longer than anticipated. Just drive!"

"Yeah, all right." Doyle waited until his passenger was situated in the back before he slid into the driver's seat. Damned American car, with the steering wheel on the wrong side. It would make navigating London traffic all the more difficult, especially when Doyle only had a vague idea of where he was headed to in Rotherhithe. At least Jax and Spalding knew the make and colour of the car, and his approximate destination—and there was supposedly another CI-5 man on the other end. Doyle felt a mite safer for the back-up. At the same time, Bodie had had as much before he completely vanished.

Mosby had left a Surrey Docks address and a small map on the passenger seat. Helpful, even as Doyle wondered whether he'd discover anything of use once they arrived. He wanted to find Bodie, trussed up like a Christmas goose, unharmed and in a foul mood, but suspected strongly that he wouldn't even be allowed in on the final weapons buy. He was in a foul mood after only a few minutes of driving and shifting the gear lever with his right hand.

It was over 17 miles to the dockside area. Doyle thought up and threw away half a dozen questions to ask Janssen on the drive, but none seemed feasible. The man had no reason whatsoever to trust him or confide in him.

"You worked with Daniels before?" Doyle finally went for friendly conversation instead of interrogation.

"He was recommended to me," Janssen replied abruptly. "I have a plane to catch, so no more delays."

"Yes, sir," Doyle ground out, frustrated. He definitely wasn't going to get anywhere with this bloke.

As he pulled onto the street in Rotherhithe, he recognized the low slung silver sports car parked on the street. Daniels was waiting for them—probably to transport Janssen somewhere else. _Bugger._

Sure enough, Doyle had barely hit the brake on the Mustang when Thomson stepped out of the Maserati and opened the car door for Janssen. Doyle got a brief glance of Daniels in the driver seat turning around to watch Janssen walk over to his car. The transfer took a matter of seconds. Thomson waved the Maserati off and then rapped on the driver side window of the Mustang.

"Shift yourself," he said with a feral grin. "You passed the first test, ducks." He bristled when Doyle pushed past him to get out of the car, his tattooed fingers twitching as if he'd love to pop Doyle right in the belly.

"So what now?" Doyle asked lazily, seeing a dark blue saloon pass then, driven by Murphy. He was good. Doyle hadn't even noticed a tail. Nice to know someone was following the Maserati. Maybe he'd suss out the location of the weapons exchange.

"You want more, you show up here to finish your initiation." Thomson handed over a card with an address, but no name, written in the same hand that had scribbled the Surrey Docks address.

"Where's here?" Doyle found himself reading the four letters inked on Thomson's fingers instead of the card.

 _Fear_.

"All Eddy's boys got this, don't they?" Thomson pulled his leather jacket half off to reveal the red and black serpent slithering around his upper arm, the head with fangs bared just past his inner elbow. "Sort of identification, in case we need to claim a body." He bared his teeth.

"What if I decline?" Doyle shoved the card into his back pocket.

Thomson's oddly pale blue eyes watched his every move. "Then you have no future with Eddy, that's the long and short of it, my lad."

"Brilliant," Doyle drawled, even though he'd known all along that it might come to this. What was a tattoo against his partner's safety? "I'd prefer a red heart with Mum inscribed across a banner, but the snake's quite fetching. Probably works a treat with the birds, yeah?"

"Shut your gob. I'm to drive you home. Where to?" Thomson stared him down, using his height advantage as domination.

Doyle didn't even raise his chin, just his eyes, refusing to be bullied by a wanker like Thomson. "I got two feet, mate, and fifty p. Bus runs right along here. I can get back on my own."

"Free taxi service," Thomson said. "Get in."

Weighing his options, Doyle considered refusing, but he suspected he'd meet the same fate as Lebeouff if he did. He nodded and walked in front of the car to get into the passenger side. "Lily Close, Kensington," he said when Thomson started the engine.

"Trying to misdirect, are you?" Thomson drove up the road, his lips twisted in a sour moue. "That ain't where you live."

 _Damn,_ so they knew his supposedly secure lodgings. Time for CI-5 to move him again. "Just moved before Christmas," he said truthfully. "Still mix the two, 'cause the street names are similar. 85 Lillian Court."

"Marylebone," Thomson finished as if to prove he knew the exact location.

"You been with Daniels long?" Doyle tried after a couple miles. At least the car was headed in the right direction and he didn't feel like he was going to be dumped off a pier into the Thames.

"Long enough to know better than t'answer anything from the likes of you," Thomson said. "You want to stay alive, you keep your gob shut and eyes open."

"The gent I ferried over, he's buying guns?" Doyle leaned against the car door so he could see the other man. Thomson was an aggressive driver but he wasn't as volatile as Doyle had expected.

"How do you know?" Thomson asked in a rush.

Doyle smiled benignly. "Picked up a word here, a word there, put things together. Not hard when Eddy's pater wants to make all of Britain a gun in the shoot."

Thomson chuffed a dry laugh, flexing his tattooed fingers on the steering wheel. "The old man has the right idea. Eddy and him got a scheme in the works that will turn the establishment on its ear."

"Yeah?"

"Janssen's guineas will grease the wheel. We already nabbed us bait for the trap."

 _Bodie?_ Doyle felt his heart rate speed up and had to work hard to maintain a neutral expression. "Who's the prey?"

"Not my department, mate." Thomson glanced over at him with his weird pale eyes.

"You're just the brawn, Eddy's the brain."

"Oy!" Thomson retorted angrily.

 _Got him_ , Doyle thought with inner satisfaction. He wasn't that hard to rile after all.

"When you get the mark, then you're got the right to know the works." Thomson used a stop light to turn and shove a finger almost up Doyle's nose. "You've been fishing for information since you turned up at the Highwayman, and that makes our little Raymond look highly suspicious."

"Simply curious about what I'm getting into." Doyle backed way off, holding up both hands to ward away the poking finger. He was oddly glad it wasn't the finger with the F of fear tattooed across the top.

And wondered if Bodie had seen that same _fear_ smashing into his face.

The drive to Lillian Court seemed to take forever, far longer than it ever did when Bodie navigated the narrow streets of Doyle's neighborhood in the Capri. By the time they'd arrived, he'd made up his mind. He wasn't about to stay the night knowing that Daniels' men were watching him. Time to—as he'd heard on the telly programme MASH—bug out.

"Do I pay you five bob for the trip?" Doyle asked, climbing out of the Mustang with alacrity.

"You'll pay soon enough, my lad," Thomson said lazily. He leaned an arm along the back of the seat, his teeth flashing white in the dark interior of the car.

_That's what he was worried about._

"Just be at that address…"

"Didn't give me a time," Doyle interrupted.

He enjoyed the flash of annoyance across Thomson's face. Pushing his fringe off his forehead, Thomson hid all expression except for the angrily twitching muscle in his jaw. "Two o'clock tomorrow. Eddy'll be expecting you."

"Yeah, I got that." Doyle stayed on the pavement until the car had disappeared around the corner in the direction of Wimpole Street. He walked into his flat, turning off the alarm that alerted CI-5 when anyone broke into the place. Once upon a time, he'd resented the damned connection to headquarters, but ever since the alarm had saved his life back in November after he was shot, he had a whole different attitude. Almost like a lifeline.

He felt like he was Bodie's lifeline. No one else quite believed that Bodie might be still alive, imprisoned somewhere. Doyle was all he had, and Doyle was not going to let his partner down. And he was not about to have Thomson follow him all over London.

Pausing only long enough to grab a change of clothes, he walked up the back staircase to the roof. The buildings were close enough that number 85 and 87 were practically touching at the top—a feature that CI-5's security experts had particularly liked.

Doyle, on the other hand, wasn't as keen on that detail. It was the approximately four foot gap between buildings that worried him. As he scrambled around air ducts and television antennae, he could hear Bodie's voice in his ear as if he was walking right behind.

_"It's not the fall, angelfish, it's the landing that will kill you."_

"Thanks, Bodie," Doyle said out loud, and leapt across.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Doyle," Cowley said, standing when Doyle pushed into his office.

Was it his imagination or did Cowley sound more than a bit worried? Bodie had always been his fair haired boy, possibly the son he never had. He'd kept his concern under a tight lid for the last few days, but the strain appeared to be getting to him just as much as it was to Doyle.

"What did you learn?" Cowley waved him to a chair, breaking out the whisky immediately.

This had to be at least the man's fourth or more dram, counting the one at tea and adding a few he'd probably shared with Lord Burley. Although Cowley looked weary, he held his drink well, Doyle thought privately.

"As you must already know, I wasn't invited to the party, was just the hired driver for the evening," Doyle related.

"Aye," Cowley said with a frown, pouring double portions for both of them. "And there was no way for Murphy to get close. He lost the Maserati once in the maze of streets around the docks and then found it again. Lucky thing Lord Burley's son drives such a distinctive car." He gave an ironic tilt to his head and tipped the whisky into his mouth. "Murphy was able to put a tracking device on the rear bumper whilst Daniels and Janssen were inside a warehouse, but there were too many suspicious eyes about for him to get in close to hear or see what was going on."

"Daniels has at least five, and possibly more hangers-on who've already been branded with his mark," Doyle said, not mentioning that he fully expected to be tattooed on the morrow. "For some reason, they seem amazingly loyal."

"Jax took up the hunt after Daniels and Janssen left the warehouse on the docks," Cowley continued. "Unfortunately, Daniels switched cars soon after and we have no idea where he went. The Maserati was found parked fairly near the flat you visited this afternoon—we have agents staked out at the airports and docks, looking for Janssen."

Doyle nodded, debating whether to drink his whisky. On one hand, it was decidedly rude to refuse Cowley's generous offer, on the other, he wanted a clear head. "Janssen wasn't exactly chatty on the drive to Rotherhithe, but he did let out that he had a plane to catch."

"Good." Cowley took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Hopefully, that will narrow down the places he could be, although he could fly to Scotland or France in a private plane from any airstrip in the country within a matter of hours and we'd never find hide nor hair of him."

"Glass half empty tonight, sir?" Doyle slugged back his liquor, again hearing Bodie's voice in his ear. _"You always have to see the glass half empty, don't you?"_

As he'd told Bodie before, not tonight he didn't. The feeling that he was getting closer to his goal buoyed him up. They'd found Daniels out, now all they needed was to bring him in and crack the nut to find Bodie.

A tall order, indeed.

"Doyle?" Cowley asked, folding his spectacles and placing them on the desk.

"Sorry, sir," Doyle said warily. He shouldn't lose himself just because he could hear Bodie so clearly. Could feel him against his skin. It was damned dangerous—especially in 'Uncle' George's presence. "Trying to recall something pertinent that Thomson told me."

"Yes?"

The old man's shrewd, inquisitive expression irritated Doyle. "He intimated that Daniels and his father were working together on a grand scheme, in his words, 'that will turn the establishment on its ear'—and that they've already nabbed 'bait' for the trap."

"Most dire," Cowley said soberly. "I spoke at length with Lord Burley this afternoon. The man has amazing gall. He was eager to have an audience, expounding on his pet project and criticizing Mrs. Thatcher's methods of governing."

"I can imagine."

"There was a malicious glee in his attitude, and I sensed a strong—" Cowley paused with a frown. "I'm not sure how to phrase it, but he certainly doesn't like the current bureaucracy and resents my own authority over CI-5. Not that he was unfriendly. As I said, he was quite happy to have someone hear him talk—at length. Pure gall, and it's quite possible that he's verging on some kind of mania."

"You think he wants your job?" Doyle asked, trying to imagine anyone but George Cowley at the helm.

"I strongly suspect he doesn't want CI-5 around at all." The older man shook his head ruefully. "Which is just one more thing that will put him at odds with the current regime. After we thwarted the assassination attempt against Madame Prime Minister last September, and kept the whole mess out of the media, Mrs. Thatcher would protect CI-5 to the utmost."

"It's looking more and more that Bodie stepped directly into a conspiracy," Doyle said, his belly clenching around the warm spot made by the whisky.

"Unfortunately, that may be the case. Daniels' meeting with Henrik Janssen may have been the first domino to fall in a whole row of them. At this point, I'm highly suspicious of his Lordship and his son. Likely as not, he's not on to something this weekend. Burley said he was keen to go hunting."

"I'm to meet with Daniels and Thomson tomorrow," Doyle said reluctantly. He didn't want Cowley to stop him, but at the same time, he wanted someone to know where he was.

"The same flat?"

"Here's the address." Doyle picked up a pen and wrote out the street name without admitting that he knew it was a tattoo parlor. "All agents stay far back. I cannot have any interference when I am this close to learning more about Bodie."

"McCabe and Lucas will stay in the shadows, 4.5.," Cowley said archly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Doyle drove the Capri to Bodie's flat, parking two streets over in the car park of a large market. Under a streetlight, to be on the safe side. He approached the old stone building warily without seeing a soul on the street. Daniels probably didn't know about this place, but Doyle wasn't taking any chances. It was near to eleven-thirty when he unlocked the front door and disabled the alarm.

Bodie's flat was still and smelled musty, as if no one had been there for far longer than three days. Which was the truth—Bodie had spent the night at Doyle's place the two days prior to his disappearance. Without turning on a light and alerting neighbors that anyone was home, Doyle prowled around, touching familiar objects. Bodie's cricket bat, his motorcycle helmet and the crossword puzzle from the London Times, only half filled out—in ink.

Dropping his jeans and t-shirt on the bedroom floor, Doyle showered quickly, just enough to get the stink of the day off of him and crawled into Bodie's bed naked. He felt such a sudden, strong connection with his missing partner, he was almost sure he could feel Bodie's arms around him, holding Doyle tightly against his chest. He fell asleep immediately.

_"What are you thinking about?" Bodie asked, his tone casual even if Doyle could sense a deeper motivation underneath._

_"Whether Manchester United will win the match tonight," Doyle said with forced lightness, focusing his binoculars on the house they were watching from an abandoned store front._

_"Never happen." Bodie chuckled. "Liverpool's the leader. No contest." He tossed a wadded up Dime bar wrapper at Doyle. It bounced off his curls and tumbled to the floor. "And that was not what you were thinking about, Goldilocks."_

_"Oy!" Doyle swatted the back of his head, checking for stickiness. "So now you think you can read my mind, do you?"_

_"All this candy floss." Bodie threaded his fingers through Doyle's hair, fluffing up the riotous curls. The damp weather had made it even curlier than usual. "Does provide a good shield against the average psychic, but I have unusual powers."_

_"Is that so?" Doyle turned to look at him finally, shaking off Bodie's hands. "What was in that candy, LSD? You're hallucinating, you are."_

_"You could say I was dreaming…"_

_"But you're not the only one?" Doyle hummed the John Lennon tune, ending with a sarcastic, "Imagine."_

_"Ah, petal, we're on the same wave length after all," Bodie said softly, plucking the binoculars out of Doyle's hands._

_Doyle found himself inordinately drawn to Bodie's lips, the way each moved and pursed to form separate words. He'd been thinking about Bodie's lips all day—and his eyes, his chest and those naughty bits down below. Which was exactly why he'd kept his own eyes glued to the binoculars, so he wouldn't look at Bodie. He shouldn't look at him, it was too dangerous. Too scary. "It's still my watch…" he protested on an exhale, now unable to look away._

_"You've been here for four hours. My turn," Bodie insisted, again with the gentle, very soft voice—almost like a lover._

_Doyle's heart fluttered frantically against his ribs, a trapped bird in a cage, all the old fears welling up. His ruined cheek suddenly ached abominably._

_As if he knew, Bodie put one hand up to cup Doyle's right cheek, their faces so close that they could have kissed. Doyle started to pull away, but Bodie hooked his hand around Doyle's neck. He wasn't holding on tightly; Doyle could have escaped if he tried. He didn't try, but felt trapped, nonetheless._

_"Bodie—the stakeout," Doyle protested feebly, reaching back to feel the solid window ledge behind him._

_"Wasn't footie you were thinking about," Bodie whispered. His blue eyes glowed like sapphires framed by black silk fringe. "Was it? It was me."_

_"You do go on." Doyle squirmed out of Bodie's grasp, setting his spine against the wooden ledge like a man in front of a firing squad. All his dreamy fantasies of Bodie's beautiful parts had been fine in the abstract, but the reality was much more frightening. And he couldn't even begin to tell his partner why._

_"Doyle," Bodie wheedled, tracing a tender forefinger along Doyle's damaged cheekbone._

_"Yes," Doyle admitted, his throat nearly closing. "I can't get you out of my head, how's that?"_

_"Me, too." Bodie touched Doyle's lower lip with the same finger, his mouth parting for a kiss that was sure to come._

_"Bodie!" Suddenly, inexplicably panicked, Doyle jerked back and banged his head against the window glass. Seeing stars, he sucked in a shuddery breath, his heart drumming so hard his vision dimmed._

_Backing off immediately, Bodie stared at him, both hands held away from his body as if to prove he had no weapons. "What just happened?"_

_"Nothing!" Doyle yelled, cradling the back of his head, panting. "I…nothing happened!  
At all!" He blinked, his focus sharp and clear again. Bodie looked bewildered and hurt—exactly why Doyle hadn't wanted to start anything in the first place. He should have left well enough alone._

_"That's where you're wrong," Bodie said carefully, those blue eyes watchful and alert. "There's something in your eyes that never was before."_

_All the more reason to hide behind the binoculars. Doyle snatched them away from Bodie and turned back to the window, his head throbbing._

_"Seemed to me…" Bodie started, obviously troubled. "That you wanted the same thing I did, or I never would have started it, Ray."_

_"You didn't start…" Doyle froze, confused. Who had made the first move? Or was Bodie really so tuned in his partner that he'd sensed Doyle's insubstantial longings? "Leave well enough alone, Bodie—there's nothing…"_

_"Me thinks he doth protest too much," Bodie quoted, sounding far more like himself, with a foundation of humour always under his feet._

_"Berk," Doyle chided, glad Bodie had let it go so easily. "If you're going to quote Hamlet, get it right. "The lady doth protest too much, me thinks." And I am no lady."_

_"That's patently obvious." Bodie leaned against the window, one leg brushing Doyle's. "Been a long time since you were with a lady, too."_

_"You've been keeping track?" Doyle licked his dry lips, feeling exposed. Bodie was far, far too close. Trying to ignore his partner, Doyle stared through the binocular lenses, desperate for something to occur in the house across the way that would necessitate them running out, guns blazing._

_"You don't take up with birds ever since Ann, so I have to ask, is there a bloke?" he asked, bending slightly to peer out the window above Doyle's head._

_"It's not…!" Anxiety clutching his chest, Doyle shoved back so fast he crashed right into Bodie._

_Putting out a hand to steady them both, Bodie frowned, dark brows crouched low over his eyes. "You're scared."_

_"Not of you!" Doyle shouted, the panic bleeding into fury. He tossed the binoculars to Bodie, adrenaline telling him to run away with all speed. Just about to stomp out, he froze. He had nowhere to go, and Bodie deserved an explanation._

_"Not of you," he said more quietly, keeping his back pressed against the wall, well away from Bodie. "Never of you, Bodie, I promise. This is…" He almost flinched, the feeling of blows raining down on him from barely seen fists, pummeling him into the pavement, smashing his face, his body, his arse, such a vivid memory. "Old business."_

_"Old business," Bodie said in a neutral tone, crossing his arms over his chest. He inclined his head very slightly, watching Doyle from underneath his lashes. "Anything to do with your cheek?" he asked._

_Everything in Doyle screamed to raise two fingers at his friend and flee, but he stayed. Swallowing against the dry Sahara in his throat, Doyle said, "I was twenty-one, a tough git with too much time on my hands. Finished with school, hadn't joined the Met, went out to a pub one night, and got jumped."_

_"Bad, I reckon," Bodie put in, his voice as deceptively mild, with a roughness underneath betraying his anger._

_"Broke my face, made me the beauty that I am today." Doyle grinned like a sneer because it revealed his chipped tooth. "Ancient history."_

_"You've been a copper, know your way around a fight." Bodie ticked off each on his fingers. "Joined CI-5, and I've seen you in all manner of dicey situations, gun battles, hand-to-hand combat…you never once bat an eye, but I stand in close to get a kiss and you startle like zombies were risin' from the dead."_

_Bodie could see through him far too well. "One of those weird quirks, you…" Arouse me was exactly the wrong thing to say._

_"So it wasn't memories of the mugging had your dander up, it was something worse," Bodie continued doggedly. "Held you down did they?" He advanced on Doyle, took one wrist in his hand, imprisoning him._

_"Bodie," Doyle warned fiercely, his back flat against the wall._

_"More than one of them? A whole mob, out to bring down a pretty lad like you," Bodie said, so dark and low that Doyle felt the fear rise up again, stark and pure, smothering him. "They didn't just beat you, did they? More, wasn't it?"_

_"More," Doyle acknowledged on an exhale._

_Bodie pulled him in close, enfolding Doyle in his arms. Bodie held him for a long time. Doyle never cried, not then, hadn't for a long time. But he trembled, the memory housed in his muscles reliving every punch and kick. There was still an absence, a blank void, for what came after that and before he waked in hospital, bleeding from his arse._

_"Hey," Bodie said softly, rubbing Doyle's back._

_Doyle shuddered. Every part of him ached, his joints and muscles sore as if he were once again bruised and bloodied all over. "Bugger the sods…" he said roughly, his chest heaving from the pressure of keeping it all bottled in for so long. "Bugger 'em all."_

_That's when Bodie kissed him._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Doyle rose out of the dream gasping, his face wet. Damn, that was so real, as if only moments had passed since their first kiss a year ago.

He couldn't keep sliding into memories of Bodie like this—his own psyche was going to derail him just when he needed all his faculties at their best. Still shaking from the aftermath, he stumbled into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Not a chance of anything edible in the house. Doyle stared into the cupboard without much hope; sure enough, Bodie's larder contained a few cans of beer, several tins of soup, the wrapper for a Swiss roll, but no sign of the cake itself, and a packet of PG Tips.

No breakfast for him, then.

Sighing, Doyle switched on the electric kettle and found a clean mug with Queen Elizabeth's face on the side. There was a narrow crack between her eyes, but the mug held liquid without leaking, so no matter.

Lounging against the counter, waiting for the water to heat, Doyle spotted a paperback, splayed open, spine up on the table. Bodie must have run out some days earlier and left his Ian Fleming novel in the middle of the story. _Her Majesty's Secret Service_ had obviously been read more than once, the pages were dog-eared and the spine split nearly in half. As Doyle picked it up, something fluttered from between the pages.

A photograph of he and Bodie, from some agent's retirement dinner or holiday party. He was in a dark suit with his tie was askew, laughing at something Bodie must have said. Bodie was alight with joy, one hand clasping Doyle's arm, the other holding up a beer in a toast.

_Damn you, Bodie._

Picking up the picture, Doyle felt his whole world tilt. He wouldn't survive this slippery-slope much longer if he didn't get Bodie back. He would be certifiable in a day or two.  
He slid the photo back into the book, unable to look at it objectively.

Fixing his tea, he gulped it down and burned his tongue. He threw on his pale green t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and left this refuge. The abysmal weather fit his mood; low, malevolent clouds spitting cold rain.

His R/T was squawking persistently when he unlocked the car door. "4.5," Doyle answered, wiping his wet face.

"Where have you been, 4.5?" Cowley scolded. "With this case in flux, I expect you to be on alert at all times."

"I was asleep, sir," Doyle said petulantly, refusing to apologize for normal bodily functions.

Cowley gave a low grumble, "Well, you'll be pleased to know that we nabbed Janssen trying to slip out of the East Midlands Airport—a smaller venue, to be sure, which is undoubtedly why he thought we wouldn't be watching there."

Astonished, Doyle switched on the ignition, ready to drive to headquarters straight away. "Are you putting on the screws? Has he talked? Where's Bodie?"

"The agents who spotted Janssen at EMA are still ferrying him back to CI-5, but I will be conducting the questioning myself. Never fear, the whereabouts of 3.7 are at the top of my list."

"Never doubted you, sir," Doyle said, glancing at his watch. "What's his ETA? I'll be there by half past eight."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You were my driver!" Henrik Janssen sprang furiously from his chair, the chains on his handcuffs rattling loudly when he lunged at Doyle.

Murphy shoved him roughly back down. "That's enough of that, my son. Speak kindly to your betters."

"Now, 6.2," Doyle chided softly, leaning against the door jam with his hands in his jeans pockets. "I'm no better'n him. Why, look at the way he's dressed. A fine cashmere suit, silk tie." He circled the prisoner sitting in a battered chair, waving a hand at the scored, unpainted table and dank, cement walled room. "We should have provided finer  
quarters for a gent like him."

Janssen glared at Doyle, his slate gray eyes glittering in the flat light of the basement room. His anger was banked, held firmly in check, but Doyle knew how to needle and goad, bring that fury to a boil so that emotion would loosen Janssen's tongue.

"You see, I may have killed a few people in my time." Doyle stood directly in front of Janssen, staring straight at him. "As a by product of the job, but this man kills wholesale, slaughters millions of innocents…"

"For profit," Murphy put in conversationally.

"Pounds and pounds and pounds of it." Doyle nodded at his colleague. "To fund guerrilla soldiers who rape women and children all for the sake of protecting opium poppies and other uplifting pursuits."

"You have no idea what you are talking about," Janssen sneered.

"No?" Doyle leaned in close, got right in his face. There wasn't a whiff of fear coming from the man. Nerves of steel, although Doyle could see droplets of sweat along Janssen's hairline. "Then set us straight. Why did you meet with…" For a moment, he couldn't recollect Bodie's undercover name. One of his Christian names.

Williams?

_Phillips!_

"Andrew Phillips? Known for running guns and other illegal substances," Doyle whispered. The softer the voice, the more the prey was seduced into the trap.

"Phillips? He was a brief stop, nothing more. I heard his name from another acquaintance who thought we should meet," Janssen said, folding his cuffed hands on the table. "I didn't transact any business with him, which is all for the better now that I realize I have been under surveillance since the very beginning. He's one of yours, is he not?"

Doyle went cold inside, his heart stuttering to a stop for fraction of a second. He started to speak when the interrogation room door opened and Cowley stepped inside.

"Johnny-on-the-spots, both of you," the old man barked. "Starting without me?"

Janssen smirked, glancing between Doyle and Murphy, apparently expecting to see dissention amongst the ranks.

Ruthlessly burying any residual thoughts of Bodie, Doyle shrugged as if Cowley's words had little effect on him. He stepped back to let his boss to the prisoner. "Be my guest, sir. We were just warming him up for you."

"And?" Cowley looked down his nose at Janssen, the overhead light creating a small pool of brightness around the two of them.

"He's only admitted to meeting Andrew Phillips, but claims the bloke is CI-5," Murphy said with a shake of his head. "We're not inclined to believe a word out of his mouth just yet. Not without a bit of proof."

"I see." Cowley frowned, the old-fashioned school master disappointed with a star pupil. "Can't be anymore helpful than that, Mr. Janssen?"

"Alas, I have no idea why you have detained me." Janssen spread his cuffed wrists as widely as they would go. "You seem to be under the impression that I have made some illegal business transactions, and I assure you that is a completely false accusation."

"Och, but that's where you're wrong." Cowley gave him a gimlet-eyed stare, his blue eyes bright. "We've just intercepted a consignment of Russian made guns, hand grenades and rocket launchers moments before they were to be loaded on a freighter bound for Africa."

This was news to Doyle. He watched his superior, not sure whether Cowley was bluffing like the old pro that he was or if he'd received last minute intel. Standing behind Janssen, Murphy widened his eyes slightly, so it came as a surprise to him, too.

"I am an import/export dealer," Janssen said patiently. "I deal only in supplies for celebrations, fetes, that sort of thing—fireworks, entertainment, tents…"

"And the Loch Ness monster is a wee water creature." Cowley snorted derisively, sitting in a chair across the table from Janssen. "As you must already be aware, we know that before and after you spoke with this scoundrel Phillips, you met with an Edward Daniels who has an arrest sheet longer than Nessie herself."

"Daniels is a business associate, but there is nothing untoward in sharing a meal with him. You're made a dreadful mistake. Once my solicitor arrives, I expect to be released."

"We aren't the bloody Met, you fool," Doyle said with a nasty chuckle. "No phone call, no solicitor to argue before the magistrate and get you out. You're here for the long term until we get our answers. And we expect you to spill all—you're already up trafficking guns, smuggling and assorted other charges, not to mention traveling on a forged British passport. Lawrence van der Horst is not your real name…" He pulled the passport Murphy had given him out of his jacket pocket and tossed it onto the table in between Janssen and Cowley.

"Well then, let's take a look at this." Cowley opened the booklet and peered at the customs stamps. "You're quite well traveled. Istanbul, Algiers, numerous Arab nations, not to mention Angola, Tangiers, and your home country of South Africa, eh, Mr. Janssen?"

Janssen didn't respond, his eyes narrowed.

"First and foremost, we are interested in the whereabouts of Mr. Phillips." Cowley got up, walking around the table, his limp far more pronounced than usual.

Doyle almost laughed. A diversion tactic, perhaps?

"Because your motor, an excellent Jaguar, number plate XIN 449W, was found abandoned soon after you and he met at the Swan. You were not our original target, as it happened, he was…" Cowley suddenly smacked his hand down on the table top. The impact sounded like a shot in the low ceilinged room.

"I spoke with him and gave him a ride for only a short distance to his destination," Janssen said calmly. "He was a nice enough fellow, but did not have the supplies in stock that I required."

"Your memory must be at fault, my good man." Cowley beckoned to Murphy. "Do you have the tape recorder set up?"

"It's right outside." Murphy went into the hall to fetch the reel to reel machine and placed it on the table beside Cowley's elbow.

Janssen's face darkened but he held his tongue, watching suspiciously as Murphy adjusted the speed and volume before switching on the tape.

 _"You say you can get me 30 members of the Kalashnikov family, and some fireworks for a… match between two rival teams?"_ Janssen's voice boomed from the recording. _"Everything necessary for a really good bonfire."_

 _"Whatever you require,"_ Bodie agreed. _"I have a warehouse full of…useful items. I simply need to see the cash. This is no post office, no credit or money orders accepted."_

 _"I'm weighing offers,"_ Janssen said. _"What can you provide that the others cannot?"_

"I think we've heard enough," Cowley said dryly, clicking off the power. "Thirty Kalashnikovs would certainly make a bonny fire. You'd light up the night sky with the explosions and rockets."

"The Kalashnikovs are a well known Russian high wire act," Janssen sniffed. "As I have said, I was ordering supplies—acts and pyrotechnics for a fete."

"Aye, so you did." Cowley perched on the edge of the table, tapping one of the reels, looking skeptical.

"We still don't believe you," Doyle snarled, fury vibrating through his body. "Where is Phillips?" He almost said Bodie but managed to switch consonants just in time, his fingers twitching to close around Janssen's neck.

"My driver said there was a malfunction with the car," Janssen explained, raising both linked hands to loosen the knot of his tie almost as if he'd felt Doyle's mental throttling. "We had to stop in a car park. Luckily, I was able to ring my friend Edward Daniels, who came to our aid. He left myself and my driver at our hotel and drove off with Mr. Phillips—I was not privy to their destination."

That was all Doyle needed. Proof that Daniels had grabbed Bodie that ill-fated day, if in fact Janssen was telling the truth. And Doyle thought he was. "What time was that?" he demanded.

"I certainly don't recall such a trivial moment from days past!" he protested.

"You should consult with a neurologist. Your memory is quite spotty," Cowley commented with a rise of one blond brow.

"You met at the Swan at eleven am with Andrew Phillips, only stayed but ten minutes and drove away at twelve past eleven," Murphy recited the facts.

"Yet you can't recall the car breaking down by the side of the road in Windsor?" Cowley asked incredulously. "Why, you were in the car with him for over half an hour, surely you must have spoken to one another."

"We conversed about the most trivial of matters," Janssen said, his mouth twisted in a grimace. "Inconsequential."

"Why did Phillips go off with Daniels?" Doyle pushed, wanting answers. He had just over an hour before he needed to leave. There had to be something more!

"They appeared to be acquainted. I do not know," Janssen replied. "Daniels greeted him by name and was pleased to see him. It had nothing to do with me. I've answered your questions, now I demand to see my solicitor immediately."

"We have many, many more questions for you, Mr. Janssen." Cowley waggled a finger at him. "We'll be here all afternoon, unless I miss my guess. And you'll be a guest of Her Royal Majesty for some while."

"Daniels greeted Phillips by name?" Doyle repeated to get the interrogation back on track. "Did he know that you were meeting Phillips beforehand?"

"Not that it's any concern of yours, but yes, I had told him." Janssen rolled his eyes, as if he had never done an illegal act in his entire career as a fete planner.

 _So Daniels knew about Bodie from square one._ No doubt, the moment Lord Burley saw the CI-5 agent, Bodie was in a heap of trouble.

"Was Lord Burley with Daniels when he picked the three of you up?" Doyle asked. He saw Cowley's eyes light up at this line of questioning.

"No. I do not know his Lordship," Janssen said tightly.

Backing up, Doyle left Cowley and Murphy to their inquiry. He had other matters to attend to. As if in anticipation of its upcoming procedure, his arm tingled as if he'd put his hand against an electric wire.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Doyle peered at the snake that now graced his flesh. His own limb no longer looked like it belonged to him, and the stinging pain felt like he had been skinned from bicep down to the middle of his forearm. Mick had managed to hide the accidental blotch of ink by covering the red with extra black detail. Doyle touched one of the artistically drawn scales. There was a raised ridge, like the serpent was rising out of his flesh, and eerily, the snake's red eyes glowed as if lit from within. He flexed his wrist, watching the snake seem to slither around his muscles of its own accord.

The combination of the tattoo artist's marijuana and two beers had really gotten to him—he was blotto. His head was swimming and he felt a little sick to his stomach. Unfortunately, there was no chance of refusing the whisky Mosby had brought over to toast his induction into Daniels' group.

"I'll be mother, then." Eddy Daniels poured whisky into four glasses and doled them out to Doyle, Thomson and Mosby, leaving the last one for himself. "To the future!"

"The future!" Mosby and Thomson said as one, watching Doyle like a pair of hawks.

"The future," Doyle echoed, drinking his whisky. "What exactly is in our future, then?"

"Big things, lads, which will change Mother England as we know it." Daniels grinned. "But first, our little Raymond has a big night ahead of him, yeah?"

Mosby giggled inanely, his crooked teeth hooked over the edge of his whisky glass.

Doyle turned to look at Daniels, and the whole pub swung lazily from side to side. He blinked which didn't help matters at all. In fact, it made them worse. Daniels' grin spread, vanished and reappeared again like the Cheshire cat's. The background noise in the pub went loud and then soft, and Mosby's laugh echoed in his ear. Daniels said something, his words slowing down the way a broken phonograph did.

_Bloody hell._

He'd been drugged. Doyle latched onto the few coherent thoughts he could manage, but they were slipping away like sand through his fingers. He could hear Thomson speaking, but the words no longer made sense. Was this how Bodie felt right before he disappeared?

_And what was this big night they had planned for him?_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Doyle came awake slowly, feeling hands pawing all over him. He groaned, terror rising up like a living thing in his breast, and tried to roll away but his body was not responding to commands.

"None of that, little Raymond," Daniels crooned in his ear, pushing him down into a mattress. The words were soft, sensual, but there was a cruel nastiness to them. "This is your debut, my love. Your night to shine."

"I don…" Doyle slurred, trying to focus. Daniels's face was a pale, elongated blob with a cloud of dark hair on top. Behind him, there were other indistinct shapes—possibly Mosby and Thomson. Mosby giggled, confirming his guess.

Doyle moaned, scooting to one side, but his right arm, the one with the fresh tattoo, was held fast. He jerked his left wrist, too, and realized he was naked and restrained to bedposts. Daniels was straddling his hips, sitting heavily on his bare legs. "Get off me!" Doyle yelled, far more clearly this time.

"I've haven't yet begun, my lad," Daniels continued, moving back just enough to be between Doyle's legs instead of on top of them. "Ned, grab his legs, keep him steady."

"You fucking shit!" Doyle surged up to the limit of his bonds hard enough to slam the bedposts against the wall. He'd known all along that this would happen. Had accepted sex with Eddy as payment for finding Bodie again.

_So why was he so scared?_

He could feel the fear, the wash of painful memories trying to pull him under, and fought against the paralyzing terror. He had to keep his head. No matter what Daniels did, Doyle was now a trained agent, not a hapless twenty-one year old anymore.

"Language!" Thomson grabbed both of Doyle's ankles, pulling them wide before buckling leather cuffs around each one. He and Mosby were still completely dressed, in contrast to their leader. "We've all been where you are, Doyley, and it's considered a privilege to have Eddy all to yourself. You're in the place of honour tonight."

They'd been prepared, ready for his initiation. "We haven't even had a first date yet and it's straight on to the naked tango?" Doyle panted. His vision had cleared and he could easily see that Daniels was completely nude, too. He was festooned with tattoos of snakes. Besides the glowing red serpent on his arm, there were three writhing on his torso, one on each thigh, and a green and gold Cobra coiled right above his genitals, its jaws spread widely, fangs bared. When Daniels was buried to the hilt in Doyle's ass, the Cobra would look like it was striking.

Doyle kicked out again, but he couldn't get free, and only succeeded in banging the bed against the wall again.

Daniels grinned widely, obviously enjoying the increasing violence. "You can lie back and accept what's going to happen, Ray Doyle, or fight, and get it rough." He pinched one of Doyle's nipples hard, twisting it so tightly that Doyle felt the sharp pain all the way down to his groin. Improbably, his cock twitched, conditioned to expect Bodie's teasing. Outraged, Doyle tried to turn on his side only to be hauled back by his tormenter.

"You'll be quite a ride!" Daniels said with smug satisfaction, pushing Doyle's buttocks up onto his upper legs so that his swollen cock just brushed against Doyle's thigh. "I wager you're keen to have it fast and rough."

"Take 'im, Eddy, take 'im!" Mosby chanted, fondling himself through his trousers.

"Don't let first impressions fool you," Doyle ground out, adrenaline surging through his body. As long as he could maintain a modicum of control, he was all right. And when it was over, he'd find Bodie. Wherever he was. Wherever they both were. "I just wanted a job. Don't fancy you at all, mate."

Thomson's fist came into view. Doyle had time to make out the letters 'F-E-A-' before he was slugged in the jaw. He tasted blood just as Daniels thrust into his anus, fast and hard.

Doyle didn't move, didn't respond, didn't cry out. Sucking on his split lip, he endured Daniels' deep penetration, using techniques learned in the martial arts to wall off his emotions. He had to bide his time until it was his turn to attack. Daniels had gone in dry, but Doyle was too experienced with anal penetration to find it overly painful. He couldn't control his body's instinctive reactions, though. Despite his revulsion, Doyle's cock half swelled, aroused by the sensation of sex, no matter how brutal.

"Bleeding hell," Daniels whispered, a ragged edge to his voice. "You're no virgin, are you, choir boy?" He rocked, thrusting aggressively, shoving so deep Doyle could feel the pressure in his chest. "Nice and tight, but not like it's strangling my willie. Ned, do your thing, so I can feel that petit mort…"

There was only a flash of the F on Thomson's first knuckle before his fingers closed around Doyle's neck, pressing firmly on his throat. True panic welled up, obliterating his rigidly held control. _He couldn't breathe!_

The need for oxygen was absolute. He gasped, trying get some air past the stricture of Thomson's fingers. Blackness flickered on the edges of his vision and Doyle bucked, drumming his heels against the mattress to no avail. The exercise only exhausted him. Consciousness fleeing, he could feel his heart beating frantically, blood roaring in his ears and his head about to explode from the pressure…

From somewhere far off, Daniels shouted, roaring his pleasure and pumped into Doyle, filling him to the overflowing. Doyle was just this side of awareness, but too drained to react. He heaved against the blockage around his neck and suddenly, there was freedom.

Sweet, blessed oxygen flooded his lungs, and he couldn't hold back a single sob of relief.  
He lay quietly, sucking in air, grateful that Daniels had rolled away and was dozing on the bed next to him.

With all four limbs locked to the bed, there was nothing else Doyle could do. Once he could breathe more easily, he looked around the room, trying to ascertain his location. It was decorated in a rustic style, but beautifully appointed. The old fashioned furniture was all matching dark wood and there were fox hunting paintings on the wall. Unless he missed his guess, they weren't fakes, either— a genuine Heywood Hardy and two Lionel Edwards.

The bed he was lying on was immense, swaged with dark red brocade curtains, and what seemed like acres of Egyptian cotton linens. This was the lodge of a wealthy huntsman, that was for certain.

He recalled Cowley mentioning that Lord Burley was going hunting this weekend.

Another home owned by the Daniels family? But where? Certainly not Burley house, because the quiet was absolute—no sounds of workmen or lorries. Of course—Doyle craned his neck over to the closest window—it was dark out. Still night-time, then. There wouldn't be any labourers after midnight. Good to know he hadn't been unconscious for very long. Just enough time to transport him wherever he was. There wasn't much residual grogginess, either, and although his head still ached, no awful headache like after chloral hydrate or something of that ilk.

The immediate question was, where had Thomson and Mosby gone? Doyle was alone with Daniels, and from the movement on his left, Daniels was awake. Doyle regarded him warily.

"You coming around, sunshine?" he asked as cheerfully as possible, under the circumstances. "No stamina, have you? Here I am ready for another go and you're passed out cold."

Daniels stretched and sat cross-legged on the bed, a lazy smile on his face. He swept a swath of dark hair back into place, completely at ease. "Hold your horses, little Ray, there's more where that came from. You do have a pretty mouth to match that fabulous ass, and I aim to fill up every cavity." He picked up his soft cock and stroked the length, urging it to swell.

The thought of having Daniels' cock in his mouth was revolting, but Doyle kept a straight face. "I'm better with me hands free," he said, returning the smile.

"No doubt." Daniels dabbled his fingers down Doyle's naked chest, lingering on the long scar around his left flank. "But I like to have my prey restrained, caught in my trap, if you will. I've never done one with such…"

He dug his nails into the scarred flesh, causing sharp zigzags of pain through Doyle's torso, tightening his breathing.

"Scars," Daniels continued, "are incredibly arousing."

Doyle grit his teeth, gasping with the flares of pain. "Not for me."

"Which is why it's so absolutely perfect, innit?" Daniels leaned down to lick the length of the pink, puckered skin.

Doyle shivered in spite of his intensions, gooseflesh pebbling his arms and legs. He focused on the biggest cobra decorating Daniels' belly, watching its gold head flicker as Daniels breathed.

"Makes you squirm, gives that little…" Swinging one leg over Doyle's body, Daniels crouched over him. With a triumphant smile, he combined twisting Doyle's nipple with another dig into the most sensitive place on the scar. "Frisson of pain to sweeten the sex." He laughed, low and nasty, rubbing his palm across both nipples, causing them to peak. "Which brings up some interesting developments." He stared pointedly at Doyle's cock, once again at half mast from the nipple stimulation.

"How about a bit of give and take?" Doyle challenged, swallowing tightly, angry at his bodily response. Traitorous cock. In such a undignified position, the last thing he needed was a boner. "Some answers for my questions."

"How about I shut your mouth with this?" Daniels sneered, holding his now fully erect cock against Doyle's bottom lip. "I run the show, git. I have the answers, and I dole them out when it's the bleeding right time." He took Doyle's jaw in one hand, using his fingers to cruelly force Doyle's mouth open.

Doyle clenched his teeth, resisting. He shouldn't, he knew that—it would just cause extra pain, but he truly couldn't submit one more time. "Sss'd off," he hissed.

Daniels managed to prize Doyle's mouth open just enough to push his penis into the gap.

Ready to bite down if Daniels gained another millimetre, Doyle heard the voices first. There was some kind of ruckus outside the bedroom door.

Intent on his goal, Daniels seemed oblivious to the noise. He dug his nails into the fleshy area under Doyle's chin and rocked his hips forward at the same time the door burst open and people spilled into the room.

"Edward!" Lord Burley bellowed. "Stop this instant!"

"We couldn't keep 'im out," Mosby whined.

Eye to eye with the leering cobra, Doyle sunk his teeth into the shaft wedging his mouth open.

Daniels screamed and back-handed him.

His head swimming, Doyle went slack, tasting blood. His or Daniels, he wasn't sure. There was quite a lot of shouting, but he couldn't follow the whole conversation until his brain stopped spinning. The mattress dipped and shifted, increasing his wooziness, when Daniels climbed off. Doyle took an unencumbered breath, various aches and pains chorusing. He hurt—especially his jaw and the brand new tattoo.

Several people were speaking at once. Doyle tried sorting out the voices but they were all talking over each other. He was a trained agent, he was supposed to collect evidence and observe the criminal element.

Thomson was yelling something about, "your fault!"

"I'm bleeding!" Daniels cried out. "Damn you, father and your…"

 _His blood then_. Doyle spat sideways onto the sheets, the movement increasing the strain on his bound wrists. His ears were ringing but he was getting more of the gist of the shouting.

"…compromised our scheme with your deviant ways," his father announced.

"Fucking ass, you'll pay for this, little Ray," Daniels hissed in Doyle's ear. "Nobody nips at my…"

"Put some clothes on and cover those damned snakes! I've tolerated this…" Lord Burley seemed a loss for words. "These appalling appetites for long enough."

"When they got you what you wanted, eh, Father?" Daniels said gutturally. "As long as I was shaming your political opponents and blackmailing the competition, you were keen to keep the status quo. But when your precious plan to oust the PM is in danger, suddenly I'm a liability. Well, it damned well doesn't work both ways."

"Edward, we have work to do. Serious, important work that requires a clear head," his father said sternly. "Untie this man and put him in with the other one. We may not have much time left if Cowley and his horde descend on our location."

_The other one…_

His pulse accelerating with excitement, Doyle slitted open his eyes to survey the scene. Eddy had pulled on a purple satin dressing gown and was moodily watching his father while smoking a cigarette.

"We are at the apex of our operation," Lord Burley said, emphasizing his point by holding up a German made pistol.

A Walther PPK, Doyle identified despite his wooziness, and wondered what exactly his Lordship planned to hunt with a semi-automatic handgun.

"What I have worked to achieve for so long is right at my fingertips and I will not have you mucking up everything with your… disgusting depravities," the old man continued.

Thomson and Mosby were standing well out of the way of his Lordship's pistol.

"Ned," Burley said to Thomson. "Free that man and get him downstairs. We still have contingency plans to discuss."

"Not interested in having a go with our Raymond, Father?" Daniels sneered, signalling Thomson not to move.

"You're reprehensible," the older man said, obviously appalled. He secured the pistol in a shoulder holster worn under his gray worsted suit.

"What are you worried about?" Daniels toyed with the leather cuff around Doyle's right wrist, flicking the end of the strap.

Coughing, Doyle turned his head to avoid breathing in the smoke from his captor's cigarette. Ash fell onto the pristine white sheets very close to his cheek.

"The entire plan has gone brilliantly so far, and I've done my part. I expect my pay, in advance," Daniels said.

"You never believed in this cause, son, which makes you weak." Burley narrowed his eyes. "It's all a big game to you, the excesses of youth. You make me regret that we share the same bloodline."

"Why? Because I've followed in your footsteps?" Daniels taunted with a bitter chuckle. "You just confine yourself to the innocent schoolgirls in Soho whilst I prefer blokes. It's still fucking, Father. Now you want to do the same to Margaret bloody Thatcher, and expect me to care when you turn the whole island into an armed fortress."

"You have lost a place in my cabinet," Burley snapped.

"That's the plan, then?" Doyle spoke up. "I was just askin' your son for more specifics, but you appear to be in charge, Lord Burley…"

"You will remain silent!" The old man went for his holstered weapon, but stopped before pulling it free. He eyed the younger generation with barely hidden loathing.

Thomson growled, advancing on the bed. He stopped at a look from Daniels but crossed his arms, the red and black serpent wrapped around his left arm like a malevolent spirit. Mosby hovered equidistant between he and Daniels, a satellite caught between two planets.

Burley adjusted his jacket to hide the holster once more, his back ramrod straight. He peered down his nose at Doyle. "You're nothing but a tool, to lure Cowley out of his lair. Once I've…"

"Not going to work." Doyle glanced around the room. Loonies, the lot of them. Dangerous loonies, but certifiable, all the same. His chances of escaping were plummeting, and he still hadn't found Bodie. "Cowley's smarter'n you. He's already got you in his sights."

Daniels raised a lazy eyebrow, and crushed his cigarette out into an overflowing ashtray. "Ah, ha, pater-mine, what do you say to that? Competition?"

"I've spoken to the old fool." Burley shook his head, snidely superior. "Too fond of his whisky and the old boys club. He pretended interest in my case, but it was only to garner favour. I am acquainted with his sort. Past his prime, clinging to the vestiges of a military career, but unable to succeed because of his handicap." He shook his finger, secure in his ultra-conservative beliefs. "Thinks he holds power because of his bunch of boy scouts, this CI-5. Controlling the vast majority of the weapons on the misapprehension that his lads are the only ones allowed fire power!" He harrumphed, smacking the end of the bed hard enough to jolt Doyle's spread and bound ankles. "This has to end."

"Arm the countryside, and we can oust the labour party members and ignorant immigrants, eh?" Daniels chuffed a laugh. He tightened the sash of his dressing gown around his waist. "If you'll get out, Fa-ther, I was in the middle of…interrogating this CI-5 operative. May have to administer a little…corporeal discipline to show him the error of his ways."

Doyle kept very still, bile rising in his throat. It was one thing to suspect that Daniels had blown his cover, and quite another thing to find out he'd probably known all along. "Your methods are pathetic, Eddy-boy," he said recklessly, not surprised when Thomson slammed a fist into his right side. He choked, pain flaring through his belly, unable to react before a second and third blow landed on his unprotected abdomen.

"Edward! Release this man, I say!" Burley stabbed a tapered finger at the leather cuffs. "No more of this vile torture. You hurt the last boy too badly. The Geneva convention has rules for holding prisoners of war. Exactly why we installed the quarters below. You, Summerset, release this man!"

"I-I can't, s-sir," Mosby replied, without his usual giggles. "Eddy's got the key for the cuffs, doesn't he?"

 _Summerset?_ Doyle moaned, hanging onto consciousness by a thread. The name whirled around in his brain. At last, something to take back to CI-5 research that they didn't already know. Official files listed no first name for Mosby, just the initials S. E.

"We will defend our castle against the miscreants!" His Lordship ranted. "Once Cowley's band of merry men show up, he'll get a taste of my mettle! I must prepare. The three of you will join me in the war room," Burley added, going for the door. "That is not a request." He strode out, slamming the heavy oak door.

Doyle's vision was on the fuzzy side, but that wasn't a major deterrent. He glared at the three men surrounding his bed and didn't like the odds one bit. He could have taken them on if he'd even had one limb free—there were all sorts of karate and judo moves he could utilize that only required a single kick or chop.

_If wishes were horses…._

"He's all primed now," Daniels sighed. He ran one hand down Doyle's belly, lingering on the long scar curving around his left flank. "This one can take much more than the last one could. Should be fun."

Doyle's skin crawled at the touch, his stomach roiling with nausea. He worked up a wad of spittle in his mouth.

"So very pretty, especially surrounded by the new bruises. You do such good work, Ned," Daniels murmured.

"Only for you, Eddy," Thomson whispered, slipping one hand into the pocket of the purple satin robe. "My gift to you. But your father is right, now's not the time."

_At least one of them had a lick of sense._

"He bit me," Daniels said, sounding all the more creepy for his soft, almost delighted tone.

"Later, Eddy, later, when we have hours to play with him." Thomson fetched the key out of Daniels' robe pocket and dropped it onto Doyle's bare chest.

Daniels looked sulky and aroused again, sucking on his bottom lip. "Make a lovely dangle for a nipple piercing, wouldn't it?" He pinched down on Doyle's right nipple, twisting the nub tightly.

"Always did like to play with needles." Thomson grinned wickedly. "I have the supplies downstairs."

Panting, Doyle only just managed to keep from crying out when Daniels rotated the other nipple in the opposite direction. "Keep it up, Eddy," he got out, baring his teeth. "I want to charge you with everything in the book from aggravated injury to one of Her Majesty's civil servants to illegal weapons trafficking…"

"That's why I keep my solicitors on retainer." Daniels released his grip and Doyle gasped as sensation came flooding back to his abused chest.

"Eddy," Thomson said very slowly. "We need to take him to the basement until later."

"Later…" Mosby echoed, reaching out to touch Daniels' sleeve. "After your father goes to sleep?"

"Sensible as always, aren't you, Ned?" Daniels turned away from his prisoner, to Doyle's relief. Ignoring Mosby's entreaty, he caught Thomson around the waist and pulled him in close. Thomson put both hands on Daniels' cheeks, kissing him forcefully. "It's always better after you have your…way with them, anyway, Ned," Daniels whispered, pulling Thomson's shirt out of his waistband to caress his lower back. "Release him, Mose, and lock him downstairs."

Blinking to focus, Doyle caught the flash of irritation on Mosby's usually jovial face. He'd seen Thomson give him the same jealous glance earlier in the night. Definitely something to remember.

Mosby plucked up the key from off Doyle's chest, holding it clenched in one hand, watching the other two kiss. After a long minute, he inserted the key into the padlock on the leather cuff on Doyle's wrist.

His fingers were almost completely numb. Doyle let his hand drop limply on the bed, waiting out the pins and needles phase while Mosby moved to the far end to unlock his foot. With his whole right side free, he could roll over, grab the prat and get him into a hammerlock.

Wiggling his fingers, Doyle rejoiced when his right foot slipped out of the ankle cuff. He tracked Mosby's trek around the bed, waiting for his chance.

"I wouldn't do it, if I were you," Daniels whispered, shoving a pistol barrel into Doyle's right ear. "Thinking all sorts of nasty little tricks, weren't you, Little Ray?"

"Too right, love." Doyle pulled the mask of his streetwise youth firmly in place to hide the fear that rose fast and dark, threatening to drown him. "Can't pull nothing over your eyes, I can see that." He held very still, the metal barrel pressed hard against his skull. It hurt, which was good because it gave him something to concentrate on besides the fact that he had just been assaulted.

"Never." Daniels ground the pistol into Doyle's ear one last time before pulling it away. "Mose? You finished with the locks?"

"Yeah, he's free." Mosby let the leather cuff fall and closed both hands around Doyle's left one, as if helping to bring back some circulation again.

"Then get up and walk," Daniels ordered brusquely.

"Where's my clothes?" Doyle asked belligerently, fisting his left hand, the metal key Mosby had just passed to him cutting into his half-numb palm. He sat up slowly and used his right hand to rub some sensation back into his feet, keeping an eye on Thomson. Rod Lebeouff had been right, Eddy liked the violence, but Thomson was the one dishing it out.

"Come and get them." Thomson flexed a sardonic grin. He waggled tattooed fingers at a pile of clothing on the floor. "You'll need to walk on your own, mate."

"Ta, all the same." Doyle stood, regretting it almost immediately. The beating on top of whatever mickey they'd slipped in his beer left him unsteady and trembling like a leaf. He wasn't about to give the three of them any more leverage than they already had. Straightening his spine, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from showing the slightest sign of weakness. A single involuntary shudder slipped past his tightly held control, but he walked across the thick Persian carpet under his own power, head held high.

"The view's quite remarkable from this angle, Little Ray." Daniels chuckled from behind him. "Should keep you bare-arsed all day long."

"Eddy?" Mosby asked, sounding plaintive. "When…"

"Take him down, Thomson, we'll be with the old man, watching him play at toy soldiers," Daniels said with contempt, brushing past Doyle to get to the door first. "There's no chance of that old fart Cowley finding us here, the house is far off all the maps. Father'll take the damning paperwork to Parliament and all the assorted big wigs within a day or so. Once they see what CI-5 and their lot has been up to, we'll all be living like kings."

Mosby giggled, glancing over his shoulder at Doyle, something confused and unhappy in his eyes. "We'll be living like kings," he mimicked his leader and followed Daniels down the hall to the left.

The effort it took to bend down and pick up his t-shirt and jeans left Doyle panting with exertion. Moving carefully, he pulled his jeans up over his naked bum, feeling like he was donning a piece of armour to protect his soft underbelly. He jammed his left fist into his trouser pocket, finally loosening his hold on the little treasure. It took some doing to unbend his cramped fingers.

He had to lean against the wall to raise his arms high enough to pull the shirt over his head, very aware of Thomson's amused scrutiny the entire time.

 _Bloody hell._ He hurt all over. No one had ever mentioned that a tattoo stung like road burn. Of course, who had he ever actually spoken to about tattooing?

"Took you long enough," Thomson said, clasping Doyle's arm to lead him to the right. "This way."

Doyle got a quick glimpse of the rest of the place—a hunting lodge, as he'd surmised . There were mounted animal heads in the main foyer, including a few species not found on the island of Britain. The high, mahogany beamed ceiling held an elegant gold chandelier that threw triangles of light and shadow through the wide space between two hallways. It was too dark to see outdoors, but Doyle did spy a telephone. Good. If there was one, there might be an extension somewhere else.

"His Lordship's round the bend, you know that?" Doyle said, trying to pull his arm free of Thomson's grasp but the other man was taller and hadn't just been worked over by a couple of pros.

"Keep your gob shut, haven't I told you before?" Thomson gave him a shake that nearly destroyed Doyle's hard-won balance.

"Can't get a bead on you, Ned," Doyle went on. _In for a penny, in for a pound—_ he'd probably get another few bruises for his impertinence, but that was nothing new. "You've got a head for business, I can tell, but you're hanging about with this lot of daft gentry. You could..."

Thomson slammed Doyle into the wall. Keeping him there with one stiff arm, the malevolent serpent on his forearm seemed to be flicking its forked tongue at Doyle. "Not your concern, my son. Nobody has authority over the likes of me, get it? I know just what it takes to…" He smiled craftily. "Motivate Eddy. He enjoys watching me—and I'm going to enjoy breaking every bone in your scrawny little body." He pushed his thumb into the fleshy area just under the jaw hard enough that Doyle saw spots in front of his eyes.

The fear curled around Doyle's spine, holding him fast. He felt the phantom blows from ten years before, heard the taunt and insults and the hands shoving him against the wall, slamming his face into the brick… He could not let them win. "Bugger off," he growled, ramming his head into Thomson's chin.

Thomson roared with anger and cramped his fingers around Doyle's throat again. "That's enough of you, rozzer."

Doyle got both hands around Thomson's wrist, clawing at the fingers cutting off his windpipe.

"Ned!" Lord Burley's autocratic voice floated down the corridor. "We are awaiting your arrival. Leave him be!"

"Last minute reprieve," Thomson hissed in Doyle's ear, loosening his grip.

Doyle heaved in a gulp of air, peripherally aware that Thomson was pulling open a door.

"Down you go." Thomson shoved him down a staircase.

Unable to break his fall, Doyle tumbled head over heels, bouncing off the sharp edge of half a dozen risers before he landed in a heap on the floor. He lurched to his hands and knees, dazed but ready to fight.

There was no one to attack. He heard the door slam above him and sat up more slowly, still sucking in good, breathable air into his starving lungs. He was in another corridor. It was dark, but not pitch black, and he could see the wall a few feet away. The passageway went back to the left, obviously directly under the part of the house with the bedroom Doyle had been in and Lord Burley's war room. About ten feet away was a door opened just a crack but enough to show that there was light in the next chamber.

Standing, he trembled and cursed, unable to fight his own vulnerability any longer. The prospect that Bodie might be imprisoned down here somewhere kept him irrevocably moving forward.

Pushing open the door, Doyle took stock of the place, recalling Lord Burley mention the Geneva convention's regulations for keeping prisoners of war. It was as if he had replicated a World War two concentration camp in the basement of his hunting lodge. There were three tiers of bunk beds lining the right side of the room and a plank table with benches on the left. An apple core and the remains of a sandwich lay on the table.

"Took you long enough," a voice said dryly.

"Bodie," Doyle croaked on an exhale, swinging around to finally see Bodie shackled to the last set of bunks. "You didn't have to climb in his car!" he said, anger surging through him, giving him enough energy to run to his partner. Bodie was covered in cuts and bruises. One blue eye was puffy and ringed with yellow/green shading. "Bloody great fool you are! Not enough sense to…" He dropped to his knees, not sure whether to cry or laugh. Maybe a little of both.

"Oy," Bodie said, reaching out to run his hand across Doyle's hair and pull him in.

Doyle clung to him for half a moment, listening to Bodie's heart just long enough to release some of his pent up fear.

"What the hell?" Bodie ran his fingers lightly over the thickened outline of the snake tattoo as if reading Braille. "Wouldn't it have been easier to take a bite of the apple, Adam?" he asked, his usual dark humour masking whatever else he thought.

Taking his cue from Bodie—stiff upper lip and all that—Doyle met his eyes straight on. "I already knew right from wrong. I wasn't tempted, but the devil took his due."

Bodie frowned and jangled the chain around his ankle. "I've learned a thing or two about temptation, and a little about retribution." He held up the Bible. "The only way to pass the time in this damned place."

"You reading Genesis?" Doyle barked a laugh and it felt good. He was absurdly happy, which seemed incredibly daft since they were both locked in a subterranean prison with no way out. Still, everything was better with Bodie by his side.

"What day is it?" Bodie asked, watching from underneath his lashes.

"Just going on Saturday, unless I was out longer than I thought." Doyle carefully touched Bodie's damaged eye and his hand trembled. To hide the shakes, he shoved it into his pocket to get the key. With any luck, the restraints all used a universal lock and he would have Bodie out in no time.

"Ray," Bodie said, his voice so gentle and loving that Doyle was nearly unhinged. "What did Daniels do?'

"Insisted on a bit of body art before I was privy to the club secrets, didn't he?" Doyle used his anger to bury every stray weak emotion. "It's nothing, Bodie."

"Raymond," Bodie started again but Doyle rammed the key into the padlock on the ankle cuff.

The key turned easily, with a small click when the locking mechanism separated. Doyle pried apart the two edges of the ankle cuff, remembering all too clearly how good it felt to have the shackles off. And he'd only been bound for a few hours. "You been locked up here since Wednesday?"

"No." Bodie chuffed a laugh, standing up to stamp his right foot. There was a raw, reddened patch all the way around his ankle. "That's great. I could move between the bed and the table and the little loo over to the side but… freedom is vastly under rated." He aimed a kick at the leather cuff. "Once I realized Henrik bloody Janssen had my number, it was too late by half. We'd stopped just off the M4, and Daniels was waiting for us. He's got a Maserati…"

"I've seen it." Doyle nodded absently, examining the room more closely for escape routes. There were narrow windows up near the ceiling on the opposite wall from the bunk beds, but at this time of night, it was impossible to see out. From their position, the windows were probably just above ground level and hidden by shrubbery or plantings around the edge of the building. Maybe he could move one of the beds or the table underneath the windows? "Keep talking, did Daniels bring you directly here?"

"Nope, after we…" Bodie massaged a bruise on his jaw with a grimace. "Had a bit of a tussle, he gave me princely accommodations in the boot of his car. Stayed there quite a while, but eventually we drove past a construction site…"

"What?" Doyle swung around, staring at Bodie. "Heavy machinery, lorries, that sort of thing?"

"I was trussed up like a Christmas goose in the boot, so I couldn’t see out," Bodie said, his brows slanting down, obviously aware he'd piqued Doyle's interest. "Why?"

"Burley House is being renovated." Doyle examined the base of bunks, but like the table and benches, the legs were bolted to the cement floor. "Which means, you may have driven past Burley House to get here—and this hunting lodge is on the grounds."

"Or we went past the site of a new block of flats," Bodie put in. "In Middlesex."

"You're no help. What escape plan have you come up with since?" Doyle grimaced, feeling surly. "Windows too high and too narrow to climb out of, furniture all unmovable and door locked at the top of the landing."

"Answered yourself, didn't you?" Bodie grinned fiendishly. "Lord Burley is the driving force. He sounds an absolute nutter but he's devious and surprisingly cunning. Bully boy Thomson played like a Nazi interrogator with me as the captured British pilot, but I had nothing they wanted to know. And because they'd got me locked up, apparently Burley's using my name to implicate Cowley with illegal gun running and a host of other unmentionables."

"Yeah, sussed that out. Cowley met with Burley, saw through the old horse quickly enough," Doyle sighed, sitting on the bunk. That was a mistake, fatigue and pain weighed him down and he wasn't sure he could get up again. He ached in places he didn't want to think about. "But we didn't know where you were to come fetch you."

"Old George didn't attach a tracking beacon to your buttonhole like a war orphan sent off to the countryside?"

"I…left without ID, R/T, all of it," Doyle confessed.

"Have I taught you nothing? What kind of ex-copper are you?" Bodie threw his arms up in consternation.

Ignoring his partner's outburst, Doyle stared down at the leather cuff at his feet. He picked it up, examining the fine workmanship. Probably hand stitched. If he could get the metal pin out of the buckle housing, it might work as a screwdriver—or a lever. The stitching on the cuff was double thick but the pin did have a bit of wiggle room. He moved it experimentally back and forth.

"I tried that, but locked on my ankle, it wouldn't come off the buckle." Bodie crouched down. "Reckon you can get it out now?" He steadied himself by putting one hand on Doyle's thigh.

Doyle nearly jumped out of his skin and dropped the cuff. "Fuck, Bodie!" he exploded, trembling again, weird tendrils of fear curling through his chest.

"Nobody else here but a couple of rats," Bodie said, backing off, both hands raised. "What happened up there, Ray?"

"I told you. Nothing, Bodie." Doyle clenched his fists, ready to do battle. But not with Bodie. He felt like he was juggling far too many balls and one of them was going to fall. "Do you listen?"

"Quite often, even to what you don't say." Bodie placed both hands under Doyle's, rubbing slow, soothing circles on his wrists. "Got marks on your wrists—not quite like the lovely circlet on my ankle, but enough to show you were cuffed, too. You move as if someone took a cricket bat to your kidneys and startle like zombies are rising from their graves…"

"Don't start that again." Doyle rolled his eyes. "Let me just work on this buckle. It'll give us a kind of weapon, anyway."

"Did you see any other weapons-- guns up there?" Bodie asked, apparently dropping the more probing line of questions. "Daniels had a Browning."

His adrenaline-rush abating, Doyle visualized the handgun he'd felt more than seen grinding into his ear. "Yeah, and his father was waving a Walther PPK. Plus, we know they sold Janssen a shit-load of Kalashnikovs and rocket launchers. Could be they stashed a few for home use, as well." He managed to get the buckle housing looser, but the stitching was proving troublesome.

"Daniels is a right bounder, tossing his father's title around," Bodie said conversationally. "Thomson was the one throwing the punches, but Daniels was spewing filth. He had his eye on you."

Doyle kept his head down, working the buckle pin in and out.

"Did he…force you, Ray?" Bodie asked with infinite tenderness, leaning against the bed support.

"What the hell do you want, details?" Doyle shouted, bounding to his feet to get as far from Bodie as he could. Unfortunately, the room wasn't very big. He stood with one hip against the plank table, feeling the sharp edge dig into his flesh. "You want a play by play—every sordid move, do you?"

"I just don't want you to…" Bodie raised his chin, not backing down, facing this with both eyes open. "Bottle it up, lose part of yourself…"

"I wasn't some naff kid like the …first time. I knew what I was doin', Bodie." Doyle bit down on the two syllables of his partner's name, so that the second one sounded like a curse. "I knew straight from the moment Daniels laid eyes on me what he wanted, and I was going give it to him, because he was my…only way back to you."

"Ray."

"I didn't…" Doyle ran both hands through his hair with agitation, the shakes returning. "I was willing to give what I had to find out where they took you, Bodie." He extended his right arm, the red and black serpent shocking against his skin—almost as if it was erupting out of his body. "This is my payment, if you will. My reminder. But it was never, ever for Eddy bloody Daniels, because I already had your mark on me. Have had for years."

"You dumb fool." Bodie latched onto his newly tattooed arm and drew Doyle to him. He folded his arms around Doyle, rocking him gently.

Doyle lay his cheek on his partner's shoulder, letting himself grieve all that had happened.

"Actually," Doyle said into Bodie's neck. "Knowing you—having been with you made things a great deal easier. I'd had it up the arse not half a week earlier." If he said any more, he was going to start crying, and that was not about to happen.

"Thank you, Ray," Bodie whispered. "You were all I thought about down here." He pressed a kiss onto Doyle's forehead and then, when Doyle turned his face, onto his mouth.

His cut lip stinging, Doyle hung onto the kiss, feeling renewed. "We've got to get out of here, talk to Cowley," he said quietly against Bodie's lush mouth.

"I'm for storming that door up top," Bodie said with a slight smile, brushing one hand against the snake tattoo as he bent to pick up the cuff. "Looks like the buckle pin slipped partway out when you dropped it."

"Think we could pick the lock with that?" Doyle mused.

"We shall just have to find out." Bodie bent the leather cuff backward until the whole buckle housing popped completely out of the frayed stitching. "Hey, presto!"

"All my hard work, that," Doyle said, snatching the pin away from his partner. "Cowley's probably got a vanguard heading this way already."

"Be much more of a feather in our caps if we got out on our own." Bodie reclaimed the pin, heading down the corridor to the stairs. "How did you get that key for the ankle cuff, anyway?"

"Mosby tucked it into my hand, last thing." Doyle walked closely behind him, waiting two steps down when Bodie slipped the slender piece of metal into the keyhole of the door at the top of the stairs. "Can't fathom either of Daniels' minions. Thomson's got smarts coupled with violence and Mosby…"

"Master/slave relationship." Bodie grunted slightly as he manipulated the lock. He tweaked the probe very slightly and then grinned over his shoulder. "Less than 30 seconds."

"Don't flatter yourself." Doyle smacked him on the back. "Forty five."

"How were you counting, Einstein?" Bodie placed one hand flat on the door and eased it open a crack. "You're not wearing a watch." He peered out before widening the gap and squeezing through. "Come on."

"The war room is at the end of the corridor," Doyle said barely above a whisper. "Bedroom in the middle. Didn't get the rest of the estate tour."

"There was a hired girl, maybe Ukrainian—she didn't speak _ze Anglis,_ " Bodie said with an exaggerated accent, "brought me a couple chip butties." He moved cautiously down the hall, hugging the wall, visually sweeping the area for danger. "Any other servants?"

"Probably, in a place this size, but I only saw Burley, Daniels and his two hangers-on." Doyle thought back, trying to remember if he'd seen Daniels actually carry the Browning semi-automatic pistol with him to the war room. Was the gun still in the bedroom? "Bodie!" he hissed. "In here."

The bedroom was still deserted, the smell of recent sex overpowering, and for a moment, Doyle thought he'd be sick right on the expensive rug. He breathed in, focusing hate directly at Daniels, and the nausea abated.

Bodie crowded in behind him, snicking the door shut. "You thinking of a kip?" He whistled softly through his teeth, taking in the rich décor. "Nice accommodations if you can get 'em."

"Not gettin a Michelin rating out of me." Doyle wrinkled his nose in disgust, seeing exactly what he'd hoped. The Browning was lying on the bed, half hidden under one of the pillows. "Actually, I had in mind a scavenger hunt, and already found the first item." He scooped up the gun, checking the magazine for bullets.

"Now who's born under a lucky star." Bodie winked saucily at him. "This is just like being in a holiday camp—what's next on the list?"

"A telephone." Doyle tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans, debating whether to take the two wrist cuffs, too. He'd love to see them on Daniels but he nowhere to carry them. Just as well because the brush of the leather cuff against his arm sent a chill down his spine.

"One in the foyer," Bodie said. "Too exposed."

"Another gun for you?" Doyle focused on what they had to do instead of what had just happened in this room.

"How about a knife?" Bodie inched open the door and slid down the hallway, his partner at his back. "There's an archway just past the war room, you reckon it's the kitchen?"

Doyle stayed low, pistol gripped in his fist. He was armed, thus he was the one to guard Bodie. "You just want something to eat before the shoot out at the OK corral, John Wayne."

"Ye of little faith," Bodie scoffed, dashing past the war room door and into the dim passage that led down a different wing of the house. "Can I help it if my beautiful physique needs constant fueling? Besides, the Ukrainian girl likes me."

The Ukrainian girl was nowhere in sight, but the kitchen was spotlessly clean and completely deserted. There were knives, a plethora of them, jutting handle up from a large knife block set next to a stove big enough to roast an entire stag.

"A veritable smorgasbord." Bodie snatched up a wickedly long blade.

"And a phone," Doyle said, locating the instrument on the wall beside a large refrigerator. "We may just win this scavenger hunt yet."

"Especially with reinforcements on our side," Bodie said in an amused voice, crossing the room to the back door. "Hello, Murph."

"What?" Doyle grunted in surprise and saw Murphy through the glass pane in the kitchen door that led out to a mud room. 6.2 looked equally surprised to see him. "Bloody hell, let him in," Doyle snarled.

"Do come in my good fellow," Bodie greeted their colleague, swinging the door open for him. "Did you bring reinforcements? Extra guns?"

"Shoulda known the two of you wouldn't need help getting out of a scrape," Murphy said with good-natured sarcasm, pointing his pistol muzzle down to the floor.

"Where the hell have you been?" Doyle exploded, lunging for the other agent, all the pent-up anger mingled with relief battering at the dams that held his emotions in check.

Bodie caught him, pressing one hand against Doyle's wildly beating heart. "Steady on, angelfish, he's one of the good guys," he said softly.

"Even with Cowley's old boys connections and Janssen's information, took us a while to actually locate where Daniels brought you," Murphy said defensively, taking a step back.

Doyle grit his teeth, trying to get himself under control again. If he wasn't careful, he was going blow the entire mission before they brought in Daniels and company. He nodded an apology at Murphy. Bodie gave an ironic chuckle and patted Doyle on his flat abdomen.

"Weren't you supposed to be all wound with chains, suffering in some cell?" Murphy asked, glancing around the well appointed kitchen.

"You've read _The Count of Monte Cristo_ one too many times." Bodie gave him an indulgent look, flourishing the knife like a rapier. He stabbed it back into the knife block.

The multi-colored bruises around his eye gave him a rakish air. Doyle had to look away from his partner for a moment, thoroughly rattled by a sudden and overwhelming desire to ravage him right then and there on the old-fashioned linoleum. _Where the hell had that come from?_ He was going mental, that was for certain. Who else would counter rape with arousal for his battered lover?

"4.7 and 6.5 are out back, along with Lucas and McCabe," Murphy explained, producing a second gun from his jacket pocket for Bodie. "You two planning on taking prisoners or scuttling out while you can?"

"I think you can answer that one yourself." Doyle was primed for a fight. He wanted to personally put Edward Daniels into irons and spread-eagle him naked on a bed for a slap and reaming out. "Come on, we've been lolling around long enough, they're expecting Cowley."

"Hey, why don't we give them a little show?" Bodie waggled his fingers. "Give us your R/T, Murphy."

"What for?" Murphy asked, looking perplexed.

"Like the American song." Doyle knew his partner. Feeling reckless and dangerous, he sang, _"And the rockets red glare, bombs bursting on air…"_

"And he sings, too." Bodie grinned, all teeth and peaked eyebrows, pressing the R/T button to give his instructions to McCabe. "Give us two minutes to get into position," he finished with. "Tally-ho, mates, let's go fox hunting."

Creeping back along the corridor to the war room, Doyle could hear the blood throbbing in his ears. All the aches and pains of the last day fell away as if they had never been. He looked down at the Browning gripped in his right hand, and then up his arm, past the forked tongue of the blood-eyed snake, to the delicately inked black and red scales of the snake's body. This was part of him now. He had to separate it from Eddy Daniels and all that the snake stood for, or he'd rip his skin clean off right after they finished this obbo.

The sound of voices in the vestibule froze all three CI-5 agents. Bodie held a finger to his lips, silently mouthing, "one more minute."

"So much for that," Daniels said from up ahead, obviously annoyed. "Did think the old fart in charge of CI-5 would come after his own by now but we'll just have to serve them the papers…" Three sets of footprints tramped further down the corridor.

"It's later now, Eddy," Mosby said hopefully.

"Don't interrupt me, prat!" Daniels shouted, and there was the dull thud of a fist striking flesh.

"Shall I give it a go?" Thomson asked with pure malevolence.

Seconds later, all hell broke loose.

Doyle had to give it to Lucas and McCabe—they put a rousing display. Automatic weapon fire peppered the front of the house, punctuated by a double roar of two grenades going off—one to the side, one directly in front of the main door. Bright orange fire lit up the foyer, silhouetting Daniels, Mosby and Thomson like shadow puppets. Mosby fell to the floor and Thomson was bowled over in the maelstrom.

"Damn!" Daniels screamed as backlash from the firestorm slammed him to his knees. "Where's my gun?" He scrambled up, pulling Thomson with him.

"They're here!" Burley shouted with manic glee, running out of the war room, brandishing his Walther. He pulled off a single shot in the direction of the burning door as Bodie and Doyle dashed down the hall.

Murphy brought up the rear and collared Mosby instantly. Bodie faced off with the old man. It took a single karate chop to Burley's gun hand and he dropped his pistol with a cry of despair. Bodie shoved him against the wall, patting him down for other weapons.

Flames flicking up the draperies to each side of the front door turned the entryway into the gates of hell. Doyle had eyes for only one person—Edward Daniels. He and Thomson had disappeared into the bedroom, probably in search of the gun Doyle held in his fist.

Berserker rage blotting out all thought, Doyle charged after his prey.

"Doyle!" Bodie yelled, holding onto a struggling Burley. "Get McCabe, Lucas! Where's the back-up?"

The hallway was filling with choking smoke, but the bedroom still had relatively fresh air. Doyle pulled the door shut behind him, advancing furiously on Daniels and Thomson. "Looking for this?" Doyle growled, holding the Browning with his finger on the firing mechanism.

Thomson pulled the trigger of a small, blue steel gun.

Doyle didn’t flinch when the bullet slammed into the doorframe millimetres from his right ear. He returned fire, blowing the pistol out of Thomson's hand with a single shot.

"Shite!" Thomson gasped, cradling his bleeding hand. He backed away, wearing a hostile expression.

"On the floor, hands behind your neck," Doyle instructed, voice pitched low and dark, raising the pistol to keep a bead on his other enemy.

Thomson knelt, and clasped his hands around his head, blood trickling down his wrist, covering the letters on his fingers with gore.

"Come back for more, Little Ray?" Daniels goaded as if he wasn't looking down the barrel of his own gun. He took a step forward with a savage smile. "You like it rough, I knew from the first."

"Don't you move, Eddy-boy, or you'll get the same," Doyle warned, directing a shot about six inches from Daniels' bare feet. "Rough and hard."

The bullet plowed a divot in the plush rug and Daniels jumped back with an exclamation. "We could be good together!" He was beginning to sound desperate. "It doesn't have to be like this."

"How does it have to be then?" Kicking Thomson's .22 under the bed, Doyle kept his pistol pointed at Daniels. He was running on pure adrenaline fueled rage, without a care for the consequences. He grabbed Thomson by his good hand, hauling him a few feet to the bed. "You tell me, Eddy, how should it be?"

"I think you've got the wrong idea…" Daniels started, pulling his purple robe more tightly around his slender body.

"What you doing?" Thomson glowered, trying to jerk away but Doyle kicked him hard in the cockles. Thomson gave a strangled yelp, his face a sickly gray.

Grabbing his opportunity, Doyle wrapped one of the cuffs chained to the bed around Ned's wrist. He didn't think, just kept moving forward, doing what felt right.

Daniels sidled to the left, making a break for the door.

"Don't try it, Eddy," Doyle growled, putting a bullet into a panel in the mahogany door. "Come over here like you're eager, love. It's your turn to shine now." He kept the gun trained on Daniels until he'd walked slowly across the room, uncharacteristically silent. "Sit down on the bloody bed and don't move," he directed, feeling a trickle of sweat run down his back. It was getting hotter in the room, probably from the fire, and the air was heavier, making it harder to breathe.

"Strip," Doyle said very softly when Daniels perched on the edge of the mattress, the tight muscles in his long jaw twitching. "Take off that ponce dressing gown. I want t'see where I bit you. My mark on you." It was tricky buckling the cuff onto Thomson while holding a gun steady, but Doyle managed, keeping his eyes on his other prey.

"You marked me?" Daniels gave a tight chuckle, but with a dawning realization that he was about to be on the receiving end. "Just a scratch, old son. Nothing to write home about." He shrugged his shoulders as if settling the purple satin robe more firmly around him.

"I said strip." Doyle pulled off another shot, barely missing Thomson's left shoe.

Thomson howled in rage, jerking his restrained arm.

"I could have shot off one of his toes, but I'm saving a bullet for a very special part of your anatomy, Eddy-boy," Doyle said quietly, the need for retribution all consuming. "Take off the robe and put that bleeding cuff around your wrist, now." The next shot blasted right into a pillow, sending up a spray of goose down.

"This is not the way it was supposed to go down!" Daniels shouted, his dark eyes going wide. "Ned, get off your fucking arse and do what you do best!"

"This is between you and me, Eddy-boy." Ignoring the man bleeding on the floor, Doyle took another step, pointing the Browning mere centimetres from Daniels' groin. "Take it off, or I'll take it off."

Daniels gasped, his cocky superiority vanishing with a gun between his thighs. He fumbled with the sash of his dressing gown and let the slick fabric glide off his shoulders. Totally nude, Daniels trembled, causing the upper trio of snakes on his body to vibrate like live pythons. "You can't…" He started to cover his genitals and Doyle shoved the gun into his pubis, almost into the mouth of the gold and green cobra tattooed there.

"I can," Doyle said very slowly. He felt nothing inside. No elation at besting his opponent. No fear, just nothing. He was absolutely empty, drained of humanity. "And I will unless you do what I tell you. _Now."_

"Yeah, okay!" Daniels snatched the remaining wrist cuff hanging from the bedpost and closed it around his left wrist. With clumsy fingers, he buckled it into place. The thick cuff beheaded the red and black serpent on his left arm. "I did it!"

"Good." Doyle stepped back, aiming almost without thought. There, just about midway down on Daniels' willie was a faint scrape with a few drops of dried blood. Just there…

"Ray," Bodie said from behind him.

Doyle recognized the name as his own, but he was no longer that man. He'd been altered irrevocably. Marked forever. He looked squarely at his target, breathing out prior to pulling the trigger one last time.

"Raymond," Bodie said more loudly. He touched Doyle's right arm, fingers lightly placed on the serpent's red and black scales. "This is not you."

"Make him stop!" Daniels shrieked just as Doyle pulled off the shot.

The bullet went wide, slamming into an ankle cuff chained to the foot of the bed. Doyle handed Bodie the gun and walked out of the room, engulfed by the billowing smoke.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"His Lordship is complaining to all who will listen that we destroyed his home," Cowley said with a faint smile. "That he had the right to defend his property against marauders."

"No mention whatsoever about the penalties for keeping prisoners in his cellar? Or that he kept enough weapons in the gun cabinet to start another world war?" Bodie asked, glancing over at Doyle. "Certainly has his priorities straight."

"Och, well, he hasn't a leg to stand on." Cowley shook his head, his mouth in a grim line. "Now that we've pointed the investigators in the right direction; Scotland Yard, Interpol, MI-5 and even some American and European agencies are opening the books on unsolved cases and bringing charges against Lord Burley and his son." He gestured at a pile of manila folders with the logos of myriad intelligence agencies stamped on the front. "The man has been gun running for years, coupled with multiple criminal activities of every sort. However, his crimes pale in comparison to what his son has done." Cowley massaged his temple, a look of deep sorrow on his face. "I've spoken at length to the Lebeouff boy, but we may never know the extent of Edward Daniels' depravities. I doubt most of the victims—especially those of upstanding families -- will ever come forth."

"And Janssen?" Doyle asked, leaning against the wall. He wasn't sure if he could stand up on his own any longer. He'd moved so far past exhaustion there wasn't a word for how he felt.

Cowley had insisted a doctor examine both Doyle and Bodie first thing, but Doyle had only admitted to a beating and drugging, not rape. He still shied at the mere thought of the word. Even after acknowledging the prospect of abuse at Daniels' hand, he couldn't move past the reality of it. The CI-5 physician, accustomed to anything from poisoning to gun shot wounds, had given Doyle and Bodie a superficial once over. He'd signed them off with a clean bill of health and the proviso to take it easy for a day or two.

As if that was remotely possible. There would be reams of reports to fill out, along with countless debriefings and meetings with representatives from all the other intelligence agencies and legal counsels. Doyle always found those kind of all-day questionings, sitting at a table with a host of skeptical barristers and investigators, vastly more tiring than a session with Macklin on the obstacle course.

He tried to remember when he had last eaten. The remains of the Hunter's chicken at the pub with Daniels and company hovered in front of his eyes, and nausea welled up unexpectedly. That was over 18 hours ago. Possibly even longer for Bodie.

"4.5?" Cowley asked loudly. "You've gone pale."

"Didn't mean to." Doyle swallowed with difficulty, faced with two pair of blue eyes staring fixedly at him. Damn, he'd zoned out when he should have been listening. "Janssen?" He latched on to the last thing he could remember saying.

"He's in the nick for now," Bodie said, his concern blatantly evident. He brushed the back of his knuckles against Doyle's thigh, an almost accidental movement of his hand, but Doyle felt a little of his weariness melt away. "Awaiting deportation," Bodie finished.

He didn't look all that good either, and Doyle chided himself for only focusing on his own harrowing experience—Bodie had been kidnapped for four days, for God's sake.

"How did he…" It was incredibly hard to think logically and ask intelligent questions. Doyle rubbed his sore arm. The tattoo was beginning to itch. "How was it that the lodge was on the Burley property but not listed as such?"

"Ah, yes." Cowley smiled, ever fascinated with puzzles and secrets. "Apparently, his Lordship's father also had frequent dalliances with—shall we say, ladies and gentlemen not accepted in aristocratic society. During World War Two, he claimed the building was bombed." He nodded, the tip of his forefinger just tapping his chin. "Which had a kernel of truth, one German plane did drop a bomb in the Cuddesdon area, causing destruction to a small portion of the Burley property on the far northern end, miles from the main house. However, apparently the hunting lodge was not damaged as seriously as reported, and the men of the family have used the place as a secret spot for trysting and other less legal activities ever since without penalty."

"Rule Britannia, all hail the bar sinister," Bodie said sardonically. "But you were still able to locate us."

"Just because it's not included in the family withholdings doesn't mean it's been completely forgotten," Cowley continued. "No, in fact, when asked directly, several members of Parliament admitted to having been there a time or two. His Lordship told me he was going hunting, I just had to call in a few favours to ascertain exactly where he usually went…"

"Grease a few palms," Bodie quipped in a bad American accent. "Very glad you did, sir."

"Quite so, Bodie." Cowley nodded to the both of them. "CI-5 would not be as efficient without its two finest agents."

Doyle suspected that was as much praise that they were likely to get. He took a deep breath, coughing when the action twinged sore ribs and his aching back. Damned kidneys, he'd already gone to the loo and peed red, although he wasn't about it admit that to present company.

Bodie straightened the stained and ripped suit jacket he'd been wearing since his original meeting with Janssen as if he was preparing for Ascot. "Sir, I think both of us are in need of a washing up and a lie-in. Perhaps we could have a fortnight off, with pay?"

"Bodie, you do try to push the limits," Cowley said wryly. "You two were the lead on this operation, and as such, will have many duties in the days ahead."

"I thought you'd assigned Bodie and Murphy as lead," Doyle brought up. "I was on limited."

"Well, that stipulation didn't hold very long, did it?" Cowley waggled a finger at him. "Your instincts proved right on the money, Doyle, and for that, you have earned your keep. The both of you are due back here on Monday, with sleeves rolled up and ready to work."

"One and a half days?" Bodie shot out of his chair. "That's criminal!"

"Accepted, sir," Doyle said, finally standing without support. He elbowed the still fuming Bodie in the ribs. "There's a small matter of new flats. Daniels' lot know about the Lillian Court address, and quite possibly Bodie's, as well."

Bodie shot him a glance that asked, _when you were at my place?_

"We are well aware of that, 4.5." Cowley nodded. "I've taken the precaution of having your things boxed up already. Bodie's flat will be closed out, and you'll both receive keys to new quarters on Monday." He pressed the intercom button for his secretary. "Betty, was a small case left for Doyle and Bodie?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, her voice tinny over the speaker. "It's here at my desk."

"There, you see? Even a change of clothing for the both of you," Cowley said, obviously dismissing them. "Everything neat and tidy."

"You only moved into Lillian Court two months ago," Bodie said, following Doyle out the door.

"Yeah, just found a decent greengrocer, too." Doyle concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other until he could collapse on a bed.

"You and your rabbit food. What we need is a huge plate of fish and chips. Something to stick to the ribs, fill you up."

"All that fat, Bodie!" It was so easy to fall into the usual banter, letting the normalcy lull him into a calm.

Bodie must have realized how done in Doyle was. He collected the suitcase and steered his partner out to the street. Amazingly, the Capri was parked at the kerb, although Doyle hadn't the faintest idea who had recovered the car from where he'd parked it outside the tattoo parlor. Just sliding into the passenger seat felt like coming home. The weather hadn't changed from the day before, a drizzly, cold rain coming down steadily, swathing all of London in a padding of gray fog.

"Where to?" Bodie asked lightly.

"Haven't a clue," Doyle dropped his head back, closing his eyes. "Somewhere other than here."

"I know just the spot," Bodie said, patting his thigh.

Doyle closed his fingers around Bodie's left hand and held on whilst he drove them out of London.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rain was drumming on the roof when the Capri bumped over a drive and into a car park. Doyle came awake abruptly, his breath catching in his throat. He opened one eye blearily but there was nothing to see. It was dark and dismal outside the warm oasis of the car.

"Where are we?" he asked, feeling gruff and out of sorts.

"Brighton," Bodie said helpfully.

"Brighton?" That woke him up quickly enough. "Bodie, it's the middle of February—and raining. It was cold in London. Probably isn't more than 7 Celsius with the wind coming off the bleeding ocean!"

"Thank you, Mr Weatherman." Bodie waited another moment as if expecting Doyle to continue with his rant.

Wisely, Doyle shut up.

"You toss all those protests my way without even getting out of the car." He glanced out the windscreen. "It is quite blustery, but we'll be warm and snug in a holiday cabin, with our own electric fire and a cooker."

"How did you know about this place?"

Bodie grinned and placed one finger alongside his nose like Paul Newman in The Sting. "I have my ways." He opened the car door. "Let me collect the keys and the directions. Back in a tick."

Doyle felt like a complete rotter for putting his needs ahead of Bodie's after he'd been so hell-bent to find his partner. Bodie had to be just as knackered as he was. Squinting through the rain, he could see the street lights down the way. He'd been to Brighton often enough to recognize Grand Junction Road, the main thoroughfare. The sight of brightly lit signs advertising restaurants and take-away shops intensified his hunger. By the time Bodie returned, Doyle was ravenous and willing to eat anything, even fish and chips.

Wiser heads prevailed. Doyle persuaded Bodie to get Indian take-away, which they ate in the car on the way to a small cottage at the end of a narrow lane. The rain held off just long enough for them to get into the place and collapse onto the sofa.

"Nice, isn't it?" Bodie said, sleepily, waving a hand at the overly floral décor.

"Looks like the lid on a box of chocolates," Doyle said, just to keep up his sour disposition, but in truth, he was feeling some better. Good vindaloo did that to him. Some of the adrenaline and tension that had kept him moving forward since he was shackled to Daniels' bed was draining away, and he wanted to clean up and get some sleep, in that order.

"I'm going to shower…" he said, without looking at his partner, bits and pieces of the dream he'd had in the car coming back in a rush. _Bodie, chained in the basement prison, beaten, with Daniels thrusting into him in a wild lust._ Hell! He hadn't even considered that Daniels might have done the same to Bodie. Bile burned in his throat at the thought.

"Doyle?" Bodie asked cautiously. "If you sick up all over the rug, I'll have to pay extra."

"Sod off." Doyle leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees so he could brace his head in his hands. Now he really didn't want to look at Bodie. Didn't want to know—except that he had to.

"I'll take the bath first, then, shall I?" Bodie stood up, sounding annoyed, and collected the remains of dinner.

"Did Daniels…?" Doyle said quickly, his belly tight with anguish.

"No." Bodie's answer was totally assured. He wasn't lying. "No, sunshine, I don't think I was his type," he said very softly, sitting down on the sofa again.

"What'd you mean?"

"I saw a picture of that Lebeouff, in the files." Bodie looked him square in the eyes.

Doyle found it disconcerting to look at Bodie's ravaged face and had to force himself to meet his partner's gaze.

"Blond hair, almost angelic face if not for his nose." He tweaked his own with a sad smile. "Fucked up little Mosby—sweet, cherubic face with those mismatched, crooked teeth. You…." He trailed off as if uncertain how to continue, and touched Doyle's bruised jaw. "Like some saint who's lost his halo, broken cheekbone and all. My handsome visage is too perfect, I expect, for the likes of him. Kate Ross would have a field day with his Lordship's son. Daniels liked the flaws, scars—maybe because he has so many of 'em himself."

The feel of Bodie's palm against his cheek was almost painful and yet Doyle wouldn't have moved for the world.

"I was just leverage, the incentive to get you to come." Bodie pressed his thumb gently against Doyle's split lip.

"I dreamed…" Doyle shrugged, grimacing. "The whole time you were missing, I kept dreaming about you—almost like you were haunting me. But it was good, because I knew you were there with me."

"That's me, the ghost of CI-5." Bodie waggled his eyebrows and trailed his hand down Doyle's cheek to his throat, fingering the bruises there.

"Then, today, after it's all said and done, I dream that he…"

"Raped me?" Bodie said with quiet intensity.

Doyle clenched his teeth, angry at bringing up his own pain again, angry that the subject even had to be discussed at all.

"You ever thought of…" Bodie touched the fading marks on Doyle's wrists. "Talking to someone?"

"Who, Kate Ross?" Doyle said. _Not likely._ Her psycho-babble made his head spin, she'd stick him on the disabled list for all eternity. "No thank you. I'm talking to you, and that's as far as it goes. No hint of…what Eddy bloody Daniels did in the reports, do you hear me?"

"Always." Bodie nodded. "I wouldn't think of it. But…"

"It's done, Bodie, buried in the past like the first time." Doyle stood up wearily. "We both survived. In my book, that's enough."

"Don't you want more?"

Bodie stood, almost too close. Doyle could feel all his defenses spring into place, as if protecting him from the one person he could be open with. He had to breathe deep, delve into his soul and tumble down the walls. "Just…" He wanted the easiness between them. The fun, uninhibited sex up against a wall, and the laughter. God, he wanted the laughter that only Bodie gave him. "Give me time."

"That's what this holiday cottage, with all the dinky antimacassars, silk flowers and Royal Doulton figurines is about, Ray," Bodie said softly, one hand on Doyle's waist. "Time. We've got 'til Monday morning."

"Yeah." Doyle nodded. It was enough.

"Come, get wet with me?" Bodie inclined his head toward the loo. "Doubt there's a shower, but we can both squeeze into the bathtub, compare bruises."

"Hard to refuse an offer like that." Doyle laughed, surprised that he could. A big part of him wanted to curl up and close out the world, which was the last thing he should do. Instead, he let himself be towed into a bathroom with ghastly pink and orange tile.

He watched Bodie undress, waiting for some internal sign that this was right. He wanted it to be so incredibly badly, but all he felt when he saw the marks Thomson's fists had made on Bodie's pale skin was anger. In a rush, he shed his own clothes, watching the green t-shirt fall onto the floor with a kind of apathy. The odd combination of fury and indifference left him feeling cut in two.

"I'd say we just about match." Standing naked, Bodie looked him up and down. "Bruise and cuts galore. Should have nipped out to a shop for the industrial sized bottle of paracetamol."

"Hot water'll do the trick." Doyle leaned down to turn on the taps and fill the enormous claw footed tub with water, using the feint to get himself under control. "Macklin swears by a good rub down and a soak. I've had to suffer through his rub downs often enough of late."

"Tick that one off the list, then." Bodie clicked his tongue, checking off an imaginary list. He reached out, touching Doyle's right arm, stroking the snake. "Makes you look new, different," he said, his voice catching, a hint of erotic interest spiraling up through the words.

"I'd get rid of it if I could," Doyle ground out, surprised at his response to Bodie's caress. He was actually becoming aroused. "It's…a nightmare."

Bodie continued to trace the curves of the serpent, touching individual scales. Some areas were still tender, others beginning to scab and peel. Doyle shivered, caught between his left over fears and the plethora of conflicting emotions swamping him.

"It's sexy," Bodie said, kissing a particularly inflamed area. "I've never felt a new tattoo before, didn't know it would have…" He kissed directly over the head of the snake, just at Doyle's inner elbow, where the skin was tender and soft. Where the bite of the tattoo gun had been the worst. "Texture."

Doyle breathed in, stunned that such simple tactile stimulation could strip away most of his inhibitions. The lines of the tattoo were still raw and sensitive, almost the way his scars had been a month or two ago. "Bodie…" he whispered, wanting more.

"It'll be flat to your skin once it heals," Bodie continued, moving in closer, his body perpendicular to Doyle's, his right shoulder tucked into Doyle's left. "Had a couple of mates in the Congo with tattoos. You can't feel the ridges on older ones."

All Doyle had to do was curve his arm around Bodie's waist and drop his head against the side of Bodie's face. He didn't see the ugly yellow/green bruising that way, but he kissed Bodie's eyelid anyway.

Still running the flat of his thumb along the inside of Doyle's elbow, Bodie turned his head to catch Doyle's mouth and kiss him properly.

"All for you, Bodie," Doyle vowed against his lips. "All for you."

"I'll hold you to that." Bodie pressed his chest to Doyle's, breathing hard against him, their hearts hammering in sync. "This is all mine."

"I want you," Doyle said with sudden clarity.

"Glad you do, sunshine." Bodie gave a bawdy wink, their slight height difference causing his eyelashes to brush the slope of Doyle's temple.

"Now—in the water," Doyle insisted, need engulfing him. If he didn't do this right this instant, he might never be able to move forward. "Now." Still holding Bodie with both arms around his waist, Doyle stepped into the bathtub, sloshing water onto the ugly tile.

Bodie climbed in after him, managing to turn the water off with a quick screw of the taps.  
Doyle looked down their bodies, so close together, and marveled at his own erection. It was the last thing he'd expected. And yet, the brief fantasy of taking Bodie on the floor of Burley's kitchen came back, banishing all other memories. He settled into the hot water, looking up at Bodie still standing. At Bodie's long, thick shaft.

He couldn't tolerate having that thing up inside him, not yet, anyway. Very soon, but not today.

But the alternative was exactly what he needed. What he could do.

"Bodie?" Doyle reached up.

There was no need for explanations. Bodie knew exactly how to manoeuvre his legs to position himself. He smiled, not the cocky, smug grin that Doyle sometimes wanted to smack right off his face, but a different one, meant only for his partner—full of need, and hope, and love.

Bodie lowered smoothly, pausing only once when Doyle's stiffness breached his tight, muscular anus. He stared into Doyle's eyes, and Doyle tightened his hold on Bodie's hips, keeping him there, even when the stretching had to be the most intense. Bodie could take it, had done so many times in their past.

Doyle gasped as he was sucked into that tight, warm sheath. His breath caught in his chest and he cried out, something inside of him releasing all the pain and anger into the cosmos. This was home, this was healing.

He thrust up, fitting himself into Bodie until they were one.

Bodie said, "Ray," like a benediction.

Doyle felt a single tear on his damaged cheekbone before he came, pumping into his partner. His orgasm was as fast and hard as a bullet shot from a gun. He felt his partner jerk, his inner muscles spasming as Bodie climaxed, too.

Laying back against the smooth porcelain tub with his eyes closed, Doyle was too tired even to pull out. Bodie floated free moments later, laughing a little as his movement made more water splash onto the bathroom floor.

"We've created a lake," he said. "It'll take all the towels in the place to mop this up."

"That's what happens when worlds collide," Doyle said weakly. "Where's the plug?"

"I think you're sitting on it." Bodie poked one foot under Doyle's bum, grasped the chain with his toes and pulled the rubber plug free.

Doyle shifted, feeling the swirling vortex of water sucking downward against the tight skin of his thigh. "Ta," he said.

"What for?" Bodie got out, wading through the flood waters on the floor to catch up two large towels from the towel rod. He tucked one around his hips.

"Waiting for me. Not giving up." Doyle climbed out.

"Could never do that, Petal," Bodie said, draping a towel around Doyle's shoulders, almost obscuring the snake on his arm. "Because I've…" he warbled an old tune. "Got you under my skin…"

FIN


End file.
